


Afghan Bullets, Beards, and Unlocked Bedroom Doors - The Sequel

by addicted2hugh



Series: Afghan Bullets, Beards, and Unlocked Bedroom Doors [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bottom John, Drug Use, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, John Still Has a Beard, John is Not Okay, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Parentlock, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, References to Addiction, References to Depression, References to Suicide, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Top Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Warning: Violent John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: This is the sequel to a fic that originally started out as a bit of fun and a lot of smutty fluff, but then ended up inspiring me to think about what might happen after the deed has been done. In short: The boys need to talk.Since there's so much material John and Sherlock have to work through after S4, I decided to divide this into different parts, each of which will deal with a monumental event in their lives, told from both John's and Sherlock's perspective.The chapters:1. The Day After - Part One (Thursday, 11th August 2016)2. The Worst Day (Sunday, 20th November 2011)3. The Anniversary (Tuesday, 20th November 2012)4. Sherlock's Return (Tuesday, 5th November 2013)5. The Wedding (Sunday, 18th May 2014)6. Another Bad Day (Monday, 9th March 2015)7. First Steps (Wednesday, 23rd September 2015)8. The Day After - Part Two (Thursday, 11th August 2016)9. The Day After - Part Three (Thursday, 11th August 2016)I hope you'll enjoy reading this. If you do, leave me a comment and let me know what you think!





	1. The Day After - Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to stick to the "real" timeline of events given in the series, but it's so inconsistent that I had to improvise sometimes. Bear with me!

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – John**

Watching Sherlock sleep is something John could do for hours on end.

Even when they were still only flatmates and he happened to come home to his friend slumbering in the living-room, completely exhausted from obsessing over a case, John often stood next to him for a while and watched his peaceful face, looking so much younger in those moments, and the careless slump of his long form draped in graceful postures across the couch, his chest rising and falling softly with deep, regular breaths.

He’s always enjoyed looking at Sherlock, and maybe that should have made him think more than it did, and earlier. But there you are. It took him a long time to come to terms with what he feels for him, and even longer to finally do something about it. He regrets not seeing it sooner, and not having the courage to act upon it when he did.

Now that they're lying side by side in John's bed, Sherlock in his striped pyjamas, only the bottom half of his body covered by the duvet, John feasts his eyes on him, and the knowledge that he’s allowed to do so now, that he could probably do it when his friend – his _lover_ – is awake, too, is almost too much for him to comprehend. He’s so in love.

It’s the most tender feeling, but there’s a bit of pain in it as well.

To think that he almost lost him. That he pushed him away. That he  _hurt_  him.

John despises himself for it.

Sherlock just forgave. He forgave the hate-filled words, the way John cut him out of his life without looking back even once, and the physical violence, too. He forgave everything, even though John doesn't deserve it.

They're together now, really together, and somewhere deep inside John knows that this is _it_ , and that Sherlock’s  _the one_ , and that he's finally found the place where he belongs, but he can't let this go any further without talking to the other man about his mistakes, without explaining that by now he's come to see how wrong he was, without making an attempt at an apology, however weak that might turn out to be. Sherlock said they'd talk. Yesterday, when John held him in his arms, when Sherlock kissed him like he never wanted to stop, he promised him they'd talk, and John can't wait to do it, to get it all out there, and to beg for absolution.

He knows there are things Sherlock hasn’t told him yet, either, things from the past that left their marks on him, and in the back of his mind one horrible scenario after the other flits by – Sherlock being hurt by someone, Sherlock hurting  _himself_  – by accident or… on purpose. He tries to push it away, to wait until Sherlock tells him and it all becomes clear, and maybe it’s not that bad after all. _God_ , he hopes so.

At least Sherlock’s safe and healthy  _now_  – they discussed that yesterday,  _after_  the first time, and not doing it sooner was probably reckless and irresponsible, but John freely admits that it never occurred to him to ask his friend if there was any reason for concern – not while seeing him lying there, his hand moving under the covers, John's name a soft sigh on his lips, and definitely not once they’d started. John had long stopped thinking then. Bless Mycroft – he forced his brother to go through a complete check-up when he discovered that Sherlock had started to use again, and he came out clean for everything. He says he hasn’t taken anything for a while now, and John wants to believe him. The scars on the insides of his arms are fading, and soon they’ll be gone completely. John has resolved to try his best to help him keep it that way, because it would kill him to lose him, and because he knows that he, John, is the reason why Sherlock turned back to the drugs to help him cope in the first place.

Looking at Sherlock's lips, John remembers his taste and the sensation of his mouth brushing against his and wonders how it's possible that he's the first one to have seen and felt him like that, the first one to be granted this privilege. He's so beautiful, so sensual, and so profoundly unaware of his own attractiveness. It's hard to imagine no one ever tried to make all that theirs. Well. Maybe people did try, but he didn't let them in. John is immensely proud that it's him Sherlock chose to be the first he shared himself with. He'll be the last one, the  _only_  one, too, if he has a say in it.

Sherlock is so fast asleep now, tired out by the events of yesterday, and John smiles and suppresses the urge to touch his pillow-tousled hair. He doesn’t want to wake him. Most days, he's up even before John is, which says a lot, since Rosie usually wakes her father up shortly after sunrise, and after half an hour of cuddling in John's bed demands to be fed and changed and entertained. When John carries her downstairs, Sherlock often sits there in his chair, clad in his pyjamas and a dressing gown, and reads, or works on a case, or simply stares into space.

But not today. Today he needs to rest, and John has to grin when he thinks back to what happened yesterday afternoon (twice, and in two different beds) and last night (unplanned, on the couch, and really quietly, with Rosie sleeping in her cot only a thin ceiling away), and a juvenile kind of pride fills him –  _I did that_. He wore him out, made him let go, freed him of his demons, at least for a little while. Sherlock said so himself, in almost exactly the same words, before he fell asleep in John's arms, and John lay awake for a little longer and basked in the glorious feeling of having him near him like that.

John knows what Sherlock's body feels like inside now, and he knows his beautiful face contorted in the sweet throes of orgasm. He knows what his come tastes like and what it's like to spill himself inside Sherlock's mouth while the other man moans around him as if what he's coaxed from John was his own pleasure too. It's been only one day and they've tried it all now, all except that  _one_  thing, and John is willing to give it to Sherlock whenever he asks for it. He told him so, and he meant it.

But he's a little scared.

He's made experiences with women that helped him to know how to make their lovemaking pleasurable for Sherlock and, which is even more important to him, how to avoid causing him pain. His medical training came in handy, too. But he's never been on the receiving end, and thus has no idea what to expect. Will it hurt? They took their time yesterday and Sherlock apparently enjoyed it a lot, and John doesn't think he lied to him when he asked him if he was comfortable. But what will it be like for him? What if he _doesn't_ like it?

John wants to give Sherlock all of himself. He doesn't know what he'd do if something, and be it his own body, kept him from doing so.

Rosie's waking up now. John can hear her roll around in her cot, babbling to herself, and he knows that she'll call for him soon. He sighs. It would be nice to have a few more days alone with Sherlock, just to sort it all out. Talk. Get to know each other as more than friends; see whether it’s any different now. Have sex whenever they want to, wherever they like.

John is crazy for Sherlock, more infatuated than he's ever been before. No other lover has ever made him feel like this.

But John is also a father now. And he swore to himself that he'd never have other people look after his child if he could help it. He doesn't want to be a burden to anybody - not to Mrs Hudson, and neither to Molly. Shortly after Mary's death, both women were indispensable sources of comfort and support to him, and he'll never forget how they helped him to get through the first rough months. Even now, both keep offering to take Rosie if need be, but he's trying to keep it to a minimum. Molly has a job to take care of, and her free time is scarce as it is. And he doesn't want Mrs Hudson to have to add "Not your babysitter!" to her long (and completely justified) arsenal of reprimands. Soon Rosie will be old enough for day care, and then Sherlock and John will be able to go back to how it was before, at least during the day. At night, still only one of them will be able to go out to investigate, and it will still most likely be Sherlock.

That's just how it is now.

Things have changed. Although John can’t imagine his life without his daughter in it, he sometimes mourns the loss of the old, carefree days. The nights filled with adventure. Sherlock, the whirlwind, sweeping him away. Danger. Adrenaline. Those were the times that brought him back to life, long after he'd given up on himself.

Before Rosie can start her usual (and often rather noisy) wake-up call, John gets up, stretches, and walks over to her cot to pick her up. She beams at him, and his heart melts, and he immediately feels guilty for wanting more time on his own.

"Hey, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?" he whispers and gives her a kiss, and then, after hesitating for a brief moment in which he wonders if it’s a good idea or maybe too much, he does what he always does and gets into bed again with the little girl snuggled up against his side.

She buries her face in his chest and giggles, and before he can shush her, Sherlock huffs and stirs.

"Hmmpf… John?"

He squints at John from under a fringe of wild, all-over-the-place curls, and John has to grin.

"Good morning," he says lowly. "Sorry for waking you. We wanted to be quiet."

Sherlock raises his head, which seems to take some effort, and finds Rosie lying between them, and for a second John sees something like panic glint in the younger man's eyes. It’s gone before he can analyse it, and then Sherlock smiles back at him. It doesn’t look entirely convincing.

"Good morning," he says, his voice rough and still sleepy.

John reaches over and runs his fingers along Sherlock's temple, and the other man rolls on his side and props his chin up in his hand.

"Are you okay? Is--- is this okay?" John asks carefully. "We do this every morning. I didn’t want to confuse her."

Sherlock swallows – John can see his Adam's apple bob up and down nervously.

"Of course," Sherlock says, his tone slightly metallic. "This is your bedroom. You do whatever you want in it."

That’s not exactly the answer John's been hoping for.

"Sherlock," he tries to reassure him. "If it’s bothering you for some reason, or if it’s too much, too soon, just say it, okay? It’s alright – I can take her downstairs and make breakfast. Or we can use your bedroom next time. It’s okay, really."

He waits with bated breath, but Sherlock shakes his head rather vehemently in response.

"No, John. Please… stay. I--- I’m just worried---"

He doesn’t continue, apparently lost for words. What he’s got to say is important, then.

"About what?" John asks, giving his voice a soothing timbre. "You can tell me, Sherlock." And then, when his friend still doesn’t answer: "There’s nothing you can’t tell me. Nothing at all. Please."

Sherlock releases a shaky breath.

"What if we--- What if I do it wrong and this--- it doesn’t work out? Or--- Or what if she doesn’t like sharing you with me? I mean, she shouldn’t have to. She should be your first priority."

 _Oh God_ , John thinks.  _No._  It pains him to know that Sherlock thinks he’ll screw this up, maybe even _expects_ himself to – and that he comes second.

"Sherlock, stop it. I see what you mean, I really do, but you don’t have to worry. We--- You know we’ll make it work. I know it's completely irrational and we can't predict what the future might hold, but… You feel it, too, don’t you? I know I do. And… this is not about Rosie sharing me with you. Look at her. Does she look upset by you being here?"

They look down simultaneously to see Rosie, who’s lying on her back by now, grinning up at them. When she notices that she’s got both men's attention, she reaches up and touches Sherlock’s face, first his nose, then his mouth. He looks surprised, almost taken aback, but then his gaze softens and he smiles at her and pretends to nip at her fingers, making her laugh.

John watches them and his stomach clenches. It’s like seeing his friend suffer through a painful metamorphosis – his hard, protective shell has broken in places, has been doing so for a while now, and slowly more and more parts of him dare to slip out through the cracks. He’s afraid of it, and John can see why he would be. He’s been hurt so much before.

"At the risk of making this even weirder for you…" John says and brushes some stray locks of hair off Sherlock's forehead. "I don’t think she knows that she has--- had a mother. She was so little when it happened. She’s been living with the two of us for so long now that she probably thinks--- well, that she perceives us as her---"

He breaks off, wishing he’d kept this to himself. He's been thinking about it now and again in the past weeks – even though he's the one who takes care of Rosie most days, Sherlock still plays an important part in her life. They raise her together. He has no idea whether Sherlock even entertains thoughts of that nature, or if it matters to him.

" _Parents_ ," Sherlock suddenly finishes John's sentence, whispering, and looks back up and into his eyes.

The breath catches in John's throat at seeing his expression. It’s one of wonder, but there’s also a lot of barely concealed doubt. He nods.

"I’m sorry. I realise it must be strange for you. I shouldn’t have brought it up," he says. "Let’s not think about it right now."

Sherlock purses his lips, but puts his free hand on Rosie’s stomach to caress her, and she wriggles happily. His long, slender fingers look huge when she grabs them with her tiny ones.

"It’s… a little much, yes," he says slowly, as if talking to himself, but then his eyes focus on John again. "I’ve hardly processed what happened between us yesterday. And I agree with you - the past is still haunting us. I find it difficult to concentrate on the future just yet." He bites his lip. "Which doesn’t mean that I don’t  _want_  to, John. It’s not your fault that everything’s so… difficult. And it’s not Rosie’s fault, either. I just--- I need a little more time."

It gives John a twinge, but of course he understands. And it  _is_  his fault – most of it, at least.

"Of course," he answers. "I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ll go and prepare breakfast, okay? You can--- You’ll have some time on your own, to go back to sleep, or to get ready, or---"

He trails off, stammering, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He feels awkward all of a sudden, and he can’t remember the last time he felt awkward in Sherlock’s presence. The feeling is deeply unsettling.

"John," Sherlock says gently. "I’d love to have breakfast with the two of you."

John takes a deep breath, relief flooding him.

"Okay."

Sherlock lets go of Rosie and puts his hand on John's cheek instead. John shivers when Sherlock uses his thumb to trace the edge of his jaw. He puts some pressure on the back of John's neck and pulls him towards himself.

"Look away for a moment, Watson," he mutters, and then their lips meet in a brief, tender kiss.

It’s chaste and almost shy, but it leaves John trembling nonetheless. He knows that kissing him like this, in front of his daughter, is a huge step for Sherlock, even if she’s only a baby and doesn’t understand it yet.

"Sherlock," he breathes as they part.

Sherlock smiles at him again, and this time it’s loving and genuine.

"John," he replies, just as quietly.

"Dada," Rosie says, sticks up her hand, and pulls at John's beard.

He yelps in pain, and she laughs.

Sherlock does, too.

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – Sherlock**

They don't talk about what happened in John's bed over breakfast. They just eat, and then clear the table, and then John plays with Rosie and Sherlock goes through their e-mails to look for new, interesting cases.

Later, John goes and takes a walk in the park with Rosie, bending down and kissing the top of Sherlock's head before he leaves, and Sherlock senses that he's giving him space and is grateful for it.

He takes a bath and tries to relax, tries to slow down the ever-whirring gears in his mind, but all he can think of is John John _John_.

He wants this to work out. He's scared for their friendship, more scared than ever before, but he's determined to give his all to do it right. This is too important, too precious to lose. He'd die if John took it away from him again.

He remembers what happened yesterday and revels in the memories for a while, storing them in his mind palace, preserving them. He never wants to forget. He gets lost in the pleasant ripples of John's imaginary caress and almost gives in to the desire flaring up in him. He's so used to taking care of his needs on his own. However, he stops himself after one slow, lazy stroke – he wants to wait, to do it with John, soon.

 _John_ , he thinks as he gets out of the bath and dries himself and gets dressed.

 _John_ , his brain sings when he tries to play the violin.

John, who is the love of his life.

John, who showed him what it means to be wanted, body and soul.

John, who wants to _talk_.

He contemplates calling Lestrade, just to have _something_ to occupy his mind with, but he knows he's too restless to really get any serious work done. Nothing distracts him well enough today. Nothing will make him stop thinking for a while.

Then Mrs Hudson appears in the door of the flat, and a minute later John comes back from the park.

Ever since John moved back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson has been establishing the habit of coming over in the afternoons to make tea for "her boys" and sometimes have a chat. When John is out and Sherlock is busy with case work or one of his experiments, she stays quiet and just puts the steaming mug on the table or desk next to him and leaves. When Sherlock is alone, but unoccupied, she makes him sit down on the couch with her and they talk for a while - it's mostly small talk, superficial trivialities, but Sherlock knows that she's not doing it because she's interested in his take on London weather or the current state of the government (he doesn't know anything about the latter anyway). She's just checking. Checking if he's okay. Checking if he's still clean. And when John is around as well, Sherlock can't help but deduce that Mrs Hudson checks whether he's treating him right.

Sherlock knows Mrs Hudson hasn't forgotten the days gone by, the shouting, the slamming of doors, the bruises Sherlock tried to hide. The long silences. The hazy hours spent lying on the living-room floor, high and crying. The vomiting and soiling himself and falling asleep in the hall, not even able to make it to the bathroom anymore.

She hasn't forgotten Sherlock's fear.

He's thankful for it. As hard as it is to admit it, and as much as it goes against his deep-seated instincts of not allowing anyone except John inside his walls – he doesn't know if he would have survived it all without Mrs Hudson, whom he has long stopped perceiving as only his landlady. She's become so much more to him.

Today is not an exception from the rule, and since both he and John have some time on their hands, the four of them sit down around the kitchen table, Rosie on Mrs Hudson's lap, and have a cup of Earl Grey and some homemade ginger nuts.

"Boys, I’ve been meaning to say… If you ever need some time on your own, you know, to get some work done or go out to--- well, whatever it is that you do when you go out, I’d be more than happy to help out again. Rosie and I had such a great time yesterday. Didn’t we, Rosie?"

Mrs Hudson bounces Rosie on her knees, and Rosie squeals in delight. Sherlock smirks to himself. How she's managed to figure it out so quickly he doesn't know, but it's quite obvious to him that this is not about giving them time to go out investigating. John, apparently oblivious to her motives, smiles at her.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson. I really appreciate the offer. But I don’t want to bother you too often. And we don’t have a case at the moment, so---"

"She’s not talking about work," Sherlock interrupts him. "She knows, John."

John blinks at him, confused.

"What? Did you talk about… it?" he asks.

Sherlock resists mocking him for not phrasing that more smoothly. He can tell John is taking care of that himself, judging by the micro-expressions playing around his mouth.

"No, we didn’t," he says. "But you  _do_  know, don’t you?"

Mrs Hudson looks at the ceiling for a moment, then back at the two men.

"I do," she says and grimaces in apology. "Sorry."

"How?" John asks, sounding completely flabbergasted.

Sherlock is interested in that, too. When John returned from his walk with Rosie a few moments ago and saw that they weren’t alone, he noticed him deliberately avoiding any behaviour that could possibly give them away, probably because he wasn’t sure how Sherlock would want to handle it. John didn’t look at him too intently, and he didn’t invade his personal space. They were quiet last night, so that can’t be it either. How can she know?

"Female intuition, John," she answers and then hesitates. "And--- the marks your beard left on his neck there," she adds and points at Sherlock.

Sherlock's hand comes up and briefly touches the nape of his neck, and he shakes his head. He’s frowning, but a small grin is tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Are you proud of me, dear?" Mrs Hudson asks. "Watching you make your deductions for all those years has finally paid off."

Sherlock scoffs good-naturedly and shakes his head.

"The step from beard burn to beard wasn’t too difficult, but yes, well done. I knew this would become an issue sooner or later," he replies.

Mrs Hudson takes a sip of tea.

"What, me doing detective work?"

"No," he says. "The beard burn. Should have looked in the mirror more carefully this morning. I was still a bit tired, apparently."

She nods.

"Busy night?"

Sherlock almost laughs at that. John looks like he wants to bite the table top. His eyes show Sherlock that he feels awkward and amused in equal measures, and it's an endearing mixture.

"You… could say that, yes."

Mrs Hudson sighs.

"How long has this been going on, then? Why did you never tell me?" she wants to know. "I should think that I, of all people---"

Sherlock holds up his hand and she stops talking.

"Since yesterday. So you see, you didn't miss anything important. Your timing is on point."

His tone is dry, almost cool, but he's not mad at being outed so early on. They wouldn't have been able to keep it from their landlady anyway, at least not for long. The open-door policy practised at 221B doesn't stop at bedroom doors, not as far as Mrs Hudson is concerned. It would have been only a question of time.

" _Oh._ "

Her eyes widen slightly. Sherlock assumes that she’s connecting "busy night" and "yesterday" at the moment, and it’s actually quite funny to watch.

"I’m happy for you," she says and smiles warmly. The laughter lines around her eyes are crinkling, but they can't hide the slight hint of apprehension in her gaze. "I’ve always hoped this day would eventually come. In fact… I think I knew it would."

Sherlock looks at John. His best friend. His new lover. The one he'd die for. The first and only one who holds the power to make him, Sherlock, truly happy – and the only one who could destroy him with a mere look or harsh word.

"Did you now," is all he replies.

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 2:  **Sunday, 20 th November 2011**


	2. Flashback: The Worst Day

**Sunday, 20 th November 2011 – Sherlock**

_I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. Owe. You._

“Hello?”

John's voice crackles through the phone connection, hitting Sherlock's ear with such shocking intensity that he feels he could reach up and _touch_ the sound if he dared. Breathless. Confused.

“John,” he says.

It's the one word, the one name, that has been keeping him grounded for the last two years. Attached to the one person who's ever managed to peel away the layers and layers of cold, hard arrogance, to dismantle the walls he'd built around his ego bit by incessant bit, and Sherlock had allowed him to, just like that. He'd _wanted_ him to. He'd have given anything to get John to move in with him, work with him, _be_ with him. Anything.

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock watches him approach, so far below, and feels his heart break. It's a silly, meaningless trope, he knows that, but he's _feeling_ it now, and for a moment he really wants to die, just to make it stop.

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now,” he tells him and looks at John's silver-blond hair, his black leather jacket, the familiar way he carries himself as he walks closer.

He wants him to stop and turn around. He wants him to stay. He wants to call out his name, tell him all the things he didn't, _couldn't_ say before everything went wrong and their lives came off the rails.

“No, I’m coming in,” John replies, sounding determined.

He can't. They'll kill him if he does.

“Just do as I ask. _Please_ ,” Sherlock begs, and he can sense John slowing down, thinking, wondering what on earth could make his friend sound like this. 

“Where are you?” John asks, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, hesitates.

“Look up. I’m on the rooftop,” he then says, and John's head snaps up immediately, and even from this far away Sherlock can see the terror in his expression.

It tears him apart. 

“Oh God.”

Sherlock swallows, looks for words that will somehow make this right, or at least bearable. John Watson needs to be protected at all costs. No matter what happens; no matter how much it hurts. No matter how long it will take.

“I--- I--- I can’t come down, so we’ll--- we’ll just have to do it like this,” he stammers.

A short silence, then John asks: “What’s going on?”

“An apology," Sherlock rambles haphazardly. "It’s all true.”

“Wh-what?”

 _Come on, John, play along now_ , Sherlock thinks. _Trust me._

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

He can tell John isn't having it. They discussed this only a few hours ago. To Sherlock, it feels like years and mere seconds all at the same time.

“Why are you saying this?” John asks.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then looks down at his friend again.

“I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock---” John starts, but Sherlock doesn't let him finish, talks over him to save them the time.

They don't _have_ time.

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

He stops, the breath catching in his throat, and hopes John won't notice that he's lying. It's better for John. He'll be angry, disappointed maybe, but not sad. He can't bear the thought of John being sad.

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up," John says, his tone determined. "The first time we met--- the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

Tears are pushing their way up inside Sherlock's throat, and he fights them down, a silent sob making his shoulders vibrate.

“Nobody could be that clever,” he presses out.

He hears John give a small, barely audible scoff.

“ _You_  could.”

His loyalty is more than Sherlock can handle. More than he deserves.

“I researched you," he improvises. "Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

“No. Alright, stop it now.”

John takes another step forwards.

“ _No_ ," Sherlock says quickly, his panic mounting. "Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”

John complies and holds up his hand in a placating gesture.

“Alright.”

Sherlock grimaces. He wants to tell him that everything's going to be alright, that it's all just a hoax, that he's predicted Moriarty's intentions and has taken precautions.

That he loves him.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me," he says instead. "Please, will you do this for me?”

Even through the phone, even though they're so far apart, he can feel John miss a beat at that.

_Please._

“Do what?” the other man eventually asks.

Sherlock allows the tears to come then, because he just doesn't have it in him to both say all this and simultaneously command his body to keep up its composure. He's simply not strong enough. He doesn't think John will make out the wet trails on his cheeks, not from this distance.

“This phone call – it’s, err… it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

He doesn't know what to do anymore. John is not going to leave. He'll see it. Sherlock is making him witness it all, and he's never meant for it to happen like this.

“Leave a note when?” John asks, but it's obvious that he knows.

He's just stalling by now.

Sherlock tastes salt on his lips. He reaches out with his free hand as if he could take hold of John's that way, and John mirrors the movement, his fingers grasping at thin air.  

“Goodbye, John,” he says as gently as he can.

_I love you. Forgive me._

“No. Don’t,” John pleads, his voice hollow.

Sherlock glances at the air cushion the Homeless Network has set up to catch him. Somewhere down there is Mycroft, supervising it all.

He wishes they'd told John about the plan, but it's too late now. Somewhere out there, a sniper is pointing his rifle at the man who means the world to him. For a brief moment, Sherlock is amused by the paradox – here he is, loving, _feeling_ so much, so irrationally, and the fact that he is is at the same time the reason why he has to cast aside all the foolish sentiment making his heart burst and do what's right, what's _reasonable_.

Why didn't he tell him?

But John… John will wait, won't he? Just like Sherlock can't function without John, John's life will not be complete without Sherlock. He'll return to him as soon as possible, and then he'll make up for it all, and they'll go back to how it was before.

Moriarty and everyone connected to him will be gone.

And John will be alive.

John will never give him what he really wants; he is aware of that. The other man made it clear that first night during dinner, and then time and time again. It's alright. Sherlock will take all the attention, all the affection he can get, however small it might turn out to be. He just wants to be with him, in whichever constellation John sees fit. In the most confused, terrifying hours of Sherlock's life, John has been his light. His compass. He can't lose that.

He'll watch over John forever, even if it kills him in the end.

_John._

Sherlock drops the phone. Then he spreads his arms and lets himself fall forwards and over the edge of the roof.

From very far away, he thinks he hears John scream his name. But it's all happening so fast that he can't be sure.

**Sunday, 20 th November 2011 – John**

When John wakes up, his head hurts. A lot. Is he hungover? Where is he, and what the hell happened?

He distantly remembers a dream he's had while he was asleep, one about Sherlock standing on the roof of St.Bart's, his eyes wild, his voice desperate.

Sirens are reverberating in the air around him, and then he realises that he's lying on cold, hard ground. There are people everywhere, shouting, running.

He gets up shakily. His side hurts as if something heavy had collided with it, but he doesn't recall the incident.

He looks around himself in confusion, and it all comes back to him with so much force that it causes him to stagger on his feet.

"No," he mutters. "Sherlock…"

And he starts to run.

People are trying to hold him back, trying to keep him from getting near the place where Sherlock fell, but he fights them off, none too gently, focused only on one thing. Maybe he can save him. Maybe it's not Sherlock after all. Maybe…

"He's my friend, let me through…" he says, again and again, without thinking.

Somehow, they let him pass. A person, John doesn't even register whether it's a man or a woman, holds his arm as he sinks to his knees next to the body, and it's not to keep him back, he notices dimly, but to give him support.

"God, _no_ ," he whispers. "Sherlock."

There's so much blood.

Somebody turns the slumped form around to reveal the face John's been dreading to see, and everything inside him turns cold. His teeth start to chatter. He feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Sherlock's lids are open, and he's looking right through him out of his incredible icy-blue eyes. All their expression, their fire, has gone. The blood from his head wound is trickling down his face, stinging John's nose with its metallic tang, and his arm is sticking out at a weird angle. He's so pale.

John reaches for his wrist and almost pulls his hand back in shock when his fingertips touch his friend's skin. It's warm, and so very soft. There's no pulse.

"Sherlock," he repeats stupidly.

 _You machine_ , he thinks. Why did he say that? Why did they fight? Why did Sherlock send him away under false pretences? Why did he tell him he was a fake, when only yesterday he tried his hardest to convince John that he wasn't?

He wants to shake him, shout at him to stop it, to tell him what this is all about. He wants to caress his face, his hair, tell him it's okay, that he can wake up now, that they'll fix this, whatever it is.

Deep down inside he knows it's no use.

His life is lying there in front of him, broken, shattered, and there's no light in the world anymore, no warmth. There's _nothing_.

Crouching there on the street, staring at the unseeing eyes of the only human being that has ever really mattered to him, John feels his soul die.

He knows the feeling – he's felt it before, during the war. But this time it's different. What are the chances of another Sherlock coming along to pick him up and save him and bring him back to life? How often do you get a second try at being happy? There's no one else like Sherlock, anyway. And John doesn't _want_ anyone else.

A scream of anguish sits in his chest, right behind his ribs, somewhere to the right of where his heart is beating steadily despite it all, keeping his body alive. But the scream doesn't come out. It just waits there, crushing him from the inside.

He doesn't know how long he's sitting there by Sherlock's side. Someone pulls him to his feet after an indeterminate amount of pain has passed, and then there's Lestrade, and Molly, and even Mycroft.

They all talk to him, but something has happened to his ears. It's like they're stuffed with cotton wool. He doesn't understand a word. Suddenly he realises that his legs are moving, but he doesn't know where he's walking. A small, but strong hand is holding his, and there's a familiar trace of powdery perfume, and a purple sleeve.

He's in a cab.

It's starting to rain.

Then he's in their living-room, his hair wet, shivering.

He can't be in their living-room. It's all _wrong_.

The desk, the carpet, the wallpaper. Everything looks like Sherlock. Everything smells like him.

He sways and has to hold on to the wall to steady himself, and his hand brushes a dark-blue scarf hanging on the coat rack, right next to a burgundy dressing gown.

On impulse, he pulls the slip of fabric towards himself and off its hook, digs his fingers into the smooth, expensive wool, and then buries his face in it.

His legs give way. Someone gasps in alarm.

John screams.

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 3: **Tuesday, 20 th November 2012**


	3. Flashback: The Anniversary

**Tuesday, 20 th November 2012 – Sherlock** 

Sherlock sits down on his rickety motel bed, nursing his arm. He knows he should go and clean himself up so as not to get too much blood on the bedsheets, but he's exhausted, and a minute of rest might help to get rid of the dizzy feeling slowing down his brain right now. He hopes it's not another concussion. They won't ask about the sheets, he thinks as black dots dance across his field of vision. This establishment has seen worse.

It's too hot. Sweat is running down his forehead and stinging his eyes.

He wants to go home.

Everybody who knows Sherlock Holmes, however distantly, is aware of the fact that he doesn't do sentiment. He doesn't entertain irrational ideas, and he doesn't wish for things that are impossible to attain, because there's simply no point.

Going home is impossible.

And yet, Sherlock wants to so badly.

It's just because of the date, he tells himself. Tomorrow he'll be back to normal.

He misses John. Always. It's like a vital organ has been removed from his body, leaving him crippled, and over time he's gotten used to it. But today, the phantom pain is killing him.

His phone vibrates, and he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the caller ID.

Sighing softly, he then answers the call.

"Mycroft."

"Brother mine," Mycroft says. "How are you today? Can we tick off yet another item on our list?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Are you interested in the former or the latter?"

There's a brief pause, but then Mycroft says: "Well, since they somehow determine each other, I'm interested in both."

Sherlock huffs. He's bantering with his brother out of habit, and usually it cheers him up by giving him some semblance of normality in these otherwise wildly unsteady times, but he's not in the mood today.

"I'm fine. And yes, the item can be ticked off. My time down under seems to be nearing its end, and I can't say I'm sorry. This kind of heat in November is simply tedious."

Mycroft hums in acknowledgement.

Then he asks: "So it's the heat that makes you sound like this?"

Sherlock pretends not to understand.

"Sound like what?"

"Like you're in pain, inside and out," is the dead-serious reply.

 _That's a new one_ , Sherlock thinks.

" _Sentiment_ , my dearest brother. I thought you were above that," he quips, but he can hear how flat he sounds and knows that his brother won't buy it.

"Are _you?_ " Mycroft asks sharply, and Sherlock heaves an exaggerated sigh.

"Your priorities are becoming clearer by the second, Mycroft. Your reptilian reputation might do you an injustice after all."

He can almost _hear_ Mycroft frown and rub his hand across his face in exasperation.

"I assume you're indeed fine, since you're still able to insult me."

Sherlock nods even though Mycroft can't see it.

"Glad we got that over with."

There's silence.

Sherlock hesitates, then bites his lip and makes himself ask.

"Have you seen John?"

He imagines his brother smirk, amused by Sherlock implicitly admitting that yes, indeed, he's hurting inside today.

"I see him all the time. But he doesn't see me."

_Okay._

"I had gathered as much. Is he… alright?"

"He is alright."

Of course he's making him beg. _Bastard._

"Care to elaborate?"

"He works, Sherlock." Mycroft sounds slightly irritated now. "He goes to the pub. He lives. What do you want me to tell you?"

 _Does he have someone?_ Sherlock thinks, but he doesn't ask.

"And… today?"

"He's at work, I presume."

"I'd like you to keep a somewhat closer eye on him today, Mycroft," Sherlock says quickly, grimacing against his reluctance to ask _anything_ from Mycroft. "Please," he adds, just to make clear that he's serious.

Mycroft coughs quietly.

"I will. I _do_ , Sherlock."

"Thank you."

They are mute for a moment. Sherlock feels awkward.

"When will you travel on?" Mycroft finally asks, and Sherlock is grateful that he's steering their conversation away from his weak spot.

"I need a day to recover," he answers. "Maybe two. My arm---"

"What happened?" Mycroft interrupts him. "Are you injured?"

Sherlock grins to himself at his alarmed tone.

"It's alright. I'm fine."

"Is your medical kit still well-equipped?" Mycroft wants to know.

"Calm down," Sherlock tells him. "I've stitched myself up before. It's just a scratch."

Mycroft exhales though his nose, loudly and pointedly.

"Suit yourself. You know I've got means to send support."

Sherlock would never admit it, but his brother's concern touches him somewhere deep inside. They never really got along, it's true. But Mycroft is his safety net, and he knows that he can't value that enough.

"Save those for when they are really needed," he says, trying to keep all cynicism out of his voice.

"As you say," Mycroft replies tersely.

Sherlock feels his wound begin to pulse and remembers that he should clean it, and sooner rather than later.

"I have to go now, Mycroft. I need to do something about my arm."

Mycroft clears his throat again.

"Take care, Sherlock."

Sherlock can tell he has to bring himself to say it – and not because he doesn't _mean_ it. But he can't deal with this kind of sentiment, not on top of everything else that's going on today.

"Of course I'll take care," he answers. "What do you think is the point of all this?"

Mycroft chuckles, and Sherlock knows he's seen right through him.

"Fine. Goodbye then, brother mine."

"Goodbye," Sherlock says.

He ends the call and gets up with a wheeze. His arm complains about being moved in such a sudden way.

He walks into the small, dingy bathroom and puts the phone on the shelf over the sink before closing the door and locking it. He never goes anywhere without this phone. Everybody who tried to take it from him would have to pry it from his cold, dead hands. It's his only way to contact Mycroft to call for help if things really get bad. It's his only connection to everyone back home. To John.

He takes off his sweat-soaked and blood-soiled trousers, shirt, and pants and throws them into the sink. He'll have to try and get rid of the stains later. He hasn't brought too many changes of clothes - if you're on the run, it's advisable to travel light. Then he steps into the shower.

The cool water running over his body shocks him at first, but after a minute he gets used to it, and he closes his eyes and puts his head under the spray, feeling grime and sweat and blood being cleaned off his skin. It's a divine feeling, although the gash in his arm hurts as the water hits it and washes clots of old blood and specks of dirt away.

He uses plain soap to lather himself up and once again realises that he'll never accommodate to this way of personal grooming. He knows it's ridiculous, but he misses his body wash, his shampoo, all the things that helped him to put on his armour and face the world outside. He loved being perfect when interacting with people other than Mrs Hudson and of course John, and he enjoyed unwinding after a long and strenuous day by taking a bath and washing it all away. His mind always just _stopped_ when his body was enveloped in warm water, and he really needs it to stop today. It hasn't stopped for such a long time now.

Chiding himself for lamenting the lack of sweet-scented shower products while on a mission to dismantle the largest and most dangerous criminal network in the world, he rinses and then switches off the shower.

After drying himself, he examines his arm and decides that stapling will be enough. He's thankful for that – he's had to do real stitches only twice so far, but it's an experience he'd rather not repeat all too often.

He does it all almost without thinking – cleaning and disinfecting the wound, stapling his own flesh together, putting on a dressing. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore.

When he's finished, he puts on a fresh pair of pants and a t-shirt and lies down on the bed. He picks up the bottle of water on the nightstand and empties it in three large gulps. It's quenching his thirst, but he wishes he had something stronger than that to take the edge off the pain and help him sleep.

And to forget the scared, startled eyes of the ones he's had to kill today.

Sometimes he wonders if he should preserve all the faces, all the stories, instead of deleting them from his mind. He's never wanted to become a cold-blooded killer. And it still affects him, so what he's been dreading hasn't happened… yet.

He turns onto his good side and his lids flutter shut without him telling them to. His body is tired, even though his mind is reeling.

_John._

Is he alright?

Is he thinking of him right now?

Has he moved on? And how much?

Will he come back to Baker Street when Sherlock comes back?

The longing to be with John is so overwhelming that Sherlock's head starts to spin. A lump of despair is forming in his throat. Everything's foggy. He wants John here. He _needs_ John here.

He knows that John would be dead now if he had stayed.

He knows it's for the best.

He knows all that.

Lying on a blood-speckled bed in a decrepit motel in the middle of nowhere, Sherlock cries himself to sleep.

**Tuesday, 20 th November 2012 – John**

John is drunk.

Really, really drunk.

He doesn't remember how he got in this bed, and he doesn't remember the name of the woman who owns it and is currently busy between his legs, sucking him off with moans of pleasure that sound too pornographic, too over-the-top to be entirely real.

It feels good, though.

He buries his hand in her dark hair and pushes a little, his hips bucking into her mouth, and she stills and just lets him do it.

John groans, trying to get lost in the feeling, but suddenly the curls he's carding his fingers through change in texture and length, and as he looks down, taken aback by how _real_ it feels, he imagines a sweaty, pale-skinned back glinting up at him and large, strong hands gripping his hips.

He growls and shakes his head and pulls his nameless bedmate off his cock, breathing heavily.

No. _Not now._

She opens her mouth, presumably to ask him what's wrong, but he doesn't allow her to speak.

"Get up here," he pants, and she complies, tottering, drunk as well.

He doesn't like her face all that much, but it's better than the vision that's been haunting him for a while now – especially at night.

He fumbles for the condom she's put on the nightstand before they started and puts it on with shaking fingers, then gets on top of her and pushes in, thrusts hard right away. One of his hands is bracing his weight against the mattress, the other one is squeezing her breast.

He's not like that.

He likes women.

Sherlock is dead dead _dead_.

" _Fuck_ ," he grunts.

He wants it to go away.

She whimpers and digs her nails into his back, scratching him until it hurts. John revels in the pain that's grounding him to reality.

They don't kiss.

"Oh _God_ ," she sobs. "Don't stop!"

He doesn't. He just keeps on pounding into her until he comes, his eyes squeezed shut, his face buried in her neck. His orgasm almost makes him pass out.

He shudders through the aftershocks and swallows down the sick feeling bubbling up in his throat. Then he stops moving. She's gasping for air, but doesn't say anything, and he just rests for a while, still lying on top of her, until his breath is back.

He's almost sure that she didn't come, but she doesn't ask for anything more, and he doesn't offer it.

Eventually he gets up, goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom, and then returns to the bedroom to put on his clothes.

She's already fallen asleep.

John gets dressed and leaves.

The cool night air clears his mind a little, and he starts to walk. He feels like an arsehole for what he's just done.

He's confused.

And he's sad.

His feet carry him through the deserted streets, and he lets himself be guided by chance. He doesn't have anywhere particular to go. There's nowhere he wants to be. His flat is a run-down, bleak place, and he uses it to shower and sleep and sit and look into space. He doesn't _live_ there. He doesn't want to go back there just yet. For a second he wonders if it was a good idea to get wasted on a weekday – he has to work tomorrow, and his patients won't appreciate him coming to the clinic reeking of alcohol. But who cares. He can always call in sick.

He doesn't register where he's going at all, but suddenly something seems familiar.

He looks up.

And it's one year ago all over again.

He finds an unlocked door and a dark staircase, and then he's on the roof, right on the edge where _he_ stood all that time ago, and he looks down on the world below and asks himself how hard it would be to just take that last step.

He's so tired of getting up each day. He's tired of his work, of his colleagues, of his so-called friends. Not one of them knows who he really is, and not one has ever cared to find out. The only one who ever really saw him for what he was has been gone for a year now, and there are days when John has to concentrate hard to even be able to recall his face in front of his inner eye. At the same time it often feels as if it had happened only days ago. The pain is still so fresh, and yet he's numb all over, has been feeling like that for months now.

He wishes it would stop.

Now Sherlock has started to visit him in his dreams, and sometimes he appears in his waking moments, too. When John's exhausted, but can't fall asleep. When he's in bed, relieving himself of his grief by having a wank, in the hope of being able to rest afterwards. No matter what he does to fight it (drinking, one-night stands, self-induced bar fights), he keeps thinking of Sherlock that way, and it's unsettling.

It's _wrong_.

It never happened when he was alive.

John is not gay. Everybody always assumed otherwise when he and Sherlock were living together, but John loves women. Always has done. A silly, hormone-fuelled crush in his school days, or a too-intense touch, a too-long look between two mates, back in the army – it all doesn't mean he's like that. Who knows what the hell goes on in a teenager's mind? And during battle, it was only human to yearn for reassurance, for contact.

And Sherlock… John doesn't think of Sherlock as a sexual being, anyway. Well-dressed and well-groomed, the other man always gave the impression of caring a lot about his outer appearance, but sex and intimate relationships seemed to alienate him. Married to his work, indeed.

John doesn't want these thoughts, these unmentionable images; he tries to push them away whenever they bubble up in the back of his head. Most of the time, he succeeds.

Only one time, about two weeks after the dreams had started, he allowed himself to give in to it. It was a rainy Sunday morning and he'd woken up with a raging hard-on, and when he reached down to do something about it, Sherlock was suddenly right there with him, whispering into his ear, running his hot tongue along his neck, then down to his nipples, and John, still half-asleep, just went with it. He drew it out, imagining Sherlock's hands all over his skin, his cock, and then he climaxed, and it was so good, so much better than anything he'd ever done on his own before, and it disgusted him so much that he swore to himself he'd never do it again.

And he's kept that promise.

He misses Sherlock so much, and he's so furious with him.

Nothing has been making sense ever since he died, and John doesn't give a fuck about what Ella says or what she thinks might help him cope. He _can't_ cope. How is he supposed to ever have closure when he doesn't even understand _why_ Sherlock did it?

He's exhausted, and empty inside, and why not just end it all right here and now, before he drinks himself to death, or goes to jail for assault, or hurts any more women by fucking them and then dropping them as soon as he's sober again?

There's no point in going on like this, really.

He swallows and shifts a little closer to the edge, tiny stones crunching under his shoes.

"No," a silky voice says, and before John has time to be surprised, a hand grabs his upper arm and pulls him back.

His heart jumps, adrenaline surging through his body. He stumbles a little as he's being dragged a few feet away from the roof's edge, and when he regains his footing and turns around, the person has already let go of him again.

" _Mycroft_ ," he pants. "What the hell?"

Mycroft Holmes is standing there, his back ramrod-straight, gazing at him with an inscrutable look in his eyes.

"This didn't seem to be a very safe place to be standing," he says. "Not with your current level of blood alcohol."

John feels anger rise inside of him. Who does Mycroft think he is?

"Are you following me?" he asks, putting as much venom into his words as possible.

Mycroft shrugs nonchalantly.

"Sometimes."

John gapes at him.

" _What?_ "

"Do you know what day it is?" Mycroft wants to know, sounding so absolutely serious that John wants to punch him.

"Of course I do!" he snaps.

Mycroft inclines his head as if to say: _See?_

"Then why do you ask?"

John bristles.

"So you--- you thought, oh well, he'll probably try to do something funny today, better watch his every step? Or what?"

"Was I right?" Mycroft asks, smiling thinly.

"Why would you _care?_ " John retorts.

"There are things worth living for, John," Mycroft answers softly, and even in his inebriated state John realises that he's never heard him speak like that before.

He ignores the odd pang of guilt the other man's words provoke in him and snorts.

"Yeah, thanks for the motivational talk. I'm still not sure it's any of your business."

Mycroft purses his lips, and his gaze hardens.

"My brother would be devastated to know you're entertaining thoughts of this kind."

John is seething by now, and hearing Mycroft say "my brother" is the last straw. He feels himself losing control.

"Well, your brother is not fucking here, _is he?!_ "

John didn't mean to shout, but he can't stop himself. Tears are prickling in the corners of his eyes, and he feels ashamed for them, and for losing his composure in front of someone so aloof, so superior.

"Your wellbeing was always his first priority," Mycroft says, not letting on that he's in any way offended by John's tone.

John's heart breaks at that, but he's also angry. So angry.

"He shouldn't have _topped_ himself in front of me, then! That was not exactly beneficial to my wellbeing, was it? So _fuck_ your brother, Mycroft, and fuck _you!_ Leave me alone!"

Mycroft shakes his head.

"No. I'm taking you home now. If you don't come willingly, I'll use force."

"Ha!" John laughs bitterly and turns to walk away. "I'd like to see th---"

There's a barely-there prick on the side of his neck, and a second later he feels his knees buckle. Hands being pushed under his armpits prevent him from falling over, and then Mycroft half-carries, half-frogmarches him towards the door leading to the stairs.

"F---fuck you…" John repeats, slurring.

Mycroft doesn't reply. 

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 4: **Tuesday, 5 th November 2013**


	4. Flashback: Sherlock's Return

**Tuesday, 5 th November 2013 – John**

Sherlock came back.

Just like that.

He came back with his schemes and his cocky demeanour and his coat and his cheekbones, unchanged, just as suave as the day he went away ( _died_ ), and John can't even _think_ about his face and his curls and his hands wiping off a fake moustache without feeling sick all over.

Two years of grieving, of hurting, of abandoning all hope of ever being happy again – all for _nothing_.

John's knuckles still hurt from repeatedly colliding with Sherlock's face last night, but the satisfaction it offered him is almost completely gone by now. Now a strange kind of emptiness has started to fill his insides; it's been wafting through his mind like grey fog, accumulating around his heart like it wanted to suffocate it, and no matter what he does, the feeling just doesn't go away.

He slept with Mary when they got home from the last establishment they visited with Sherlock (you couldn't call it a restaurant), and he tried to make it all about her, make it slow and gentle and a promise of his love, a promise for what's to come when they're husband and wife. But all the while, Sherlock's eyes hovered in front of his own, as clearly as if they were real, as if the man they belong to was right there in the room with them, and John drowned in them until he couldn't tell anymore whether he was mesmerised or nauseated by the vision. _Sherlock._ Why couldn't he just leave him alone? Why did he keep invading his most private, most _intimate_ moments like that? He fought down his anger, biting his lip until he almost drew blood and wishing he'd had more wine, wanting nothing more than to get it all over with fast, to pound into the woman lying in bed with him, into any random body, really, until he'd stop thinking, until he'd spend himself and be finally, _finally_ , still.

He didn't do that, of course. He felt ashamed for yearning for it so much. He'd never treat Mary like that - she deserves better. ( _All_ of them deserved better.) Those days, the days (and nights) of numbing himself with alcohol and frantic, anonymous sex, are over. They have been over for half a year now, and he doesn't want them back.

He wants a quiet life, a life with Mary, and his job, and maybe they can buy a small house? A flat of their own would do as well. Maybe they can even have children, start a family. She's younger than him, so they've still got time. He's ready to settle down.

 _Without_ Sherlock and his shenanigans.

Without constantly worrying about who he'll piss off next, or where he'll run to launch himself head-first into a near-fatal encounter with the next criminal mastermind. Without feeling like a fifth wheel all the time, trailing after Sherlock and his blown-up ego, only there to please, to admire, to praise the genius of the great detective.

What a pretentious  _prick_.

He hates him, and he never wants to see him again.

_(Not dead!)_

Remembering the smug arrogance with which Sherlock chose to reveal himself, John's fury flares up inside his guts all over again. At the same time, he wants to go over to Baker Street and see if he's really there, if he's really back. He wants to grab him and shake him and _hurt_ him again, just to hear his solid weight tumble against the wall or the floor, to hear him moan in pain, just to _feel_ him, being there, being _real_. John despises himself for it.

They're _finished_.

Mary likes him, she says. John can't see how she possibly can, knowing what he did to him, John – her _fiancé_.

Now she's reading the blog, reciting the bits she likes despite him asking her not to (it hurts; it  _hurts_ so fucking much), and John looks at himself in the mirror and wonders why the hell he's shaving.

_(Are you really gonna keep that?)_

Mary doesn't really like the moustache, that's why. She should have told him all along. He would have shaved it off ages ago. For his lover, his soon-to-be wife, he'd do absolutely anything.

She's the one who matters now.

"Are you gonna see him again?" she asks, and he turns around.

There she is, the woman he's going to spend his life with. Sitting on their bed, cross-legged, grinning up at him. She's beautiful, he thinks. She's all he needs.

He looks at her, his face covered in shaving cream, and rolls his eyes.

"No – I'm going to work."

And even as he says it, he knows that yes, he _is_. He absolutely is. Because he's stupid, a fucking _idiot_. Because he's always known he would. Because his life has been revolving around Sherlock ever since they met for the very first time, and he can't escape, regardless of how much he hates it.

And because, deep inside, he's so, _so_ happy that he's alive.

**Tuesday, 5 th November 2013 – Sherlock**

John, lying beneath a pile of blazing wood, struggling to free himself. Choking on smoke. Blistering skin, screams, panic-widened eyes. The smell of burning hair, burning flesh. More screaming. John's voice calling out for help, for someone to save him, for Sherlock, _Sherlock_ \---

Sherlock wakes up with a start and sits up in his bed, soaked in sweat and panting for air. His chest feels constricted, so much so that it hurts, and it takes him a while to identify the reason for it – he's crying, loudly, sobbing hoarsely, his cheeks wet with tears. And he can't stop.

He buries his face in his hands and hides himself from the darkness of his own bedroom, ashamed for allowing sentiment to take him, _possess_ him like that, and tries to breathe evenly.

It doesn't work.

He looks up and at the clock sitting on his nightstand. It's not even midnight yet.

John almost died today.

Maybe because of _him_ , maybe because someone wanted to get him to come out and _play_. He's been back for a day, and already John had to suffer because of him. _Again._ Maybe he should really let him go, just to keep him safe. Maybe it's for the best. 

He is probably still in hospital now – Mary insisted. She's probably there with him, sitting by his bedside, watching over him as he sleeps. Or they're talking, quietly, holding hands. Maybe she's kissing his brow, caressing his hair.

Sherlock can't bear it. He can't catch hold of a thought to calm himself, can't get his body to relax, and thinking of John in Mary's arms, a blissful smile on his soot-streaked face, only makes it worse.

John is getting married!

_Why didn't I come back one day earlier?_

He would have needed only _one_ day. One day to overwhelm John, distract him, get his mind off this insane idea, and maybe this engagement would never have happened.

From the way the lovers behave around each other, Sherlock deduces that they can't have been involved for longer than a few months – half a year at most. He himself doesn't have any experience when it comes to personal relationships of this kind, but he's sure that such a short time together can't offer enough grounds on which to build a happy marriage. It simply _can't_. John doesn't really know Mary. And she's not what she seems. Sherlock can't tell what it is about her that unsettles him so, but he knows that there's more to her than meets the eye. What does she have that John thinks he needs? He can't be serious. Maybe it was just some freakish way of dealing with his grief. Maybe he'll call it off, now that he, Sherlock, is back by his side?

_Stop kidding yourself._

John won't call it off. He's angry at him, and rightly so. And he'll never be "by his side" again – he's made that quite clear. If it all hadn't already been lost before, it definitely was the moment he stepped into the restaurant and disguised himself for his big "surprise".

What was he thinking?

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. He was so sure that John would be beside himself with joy to see him alive, that they'd go back to what they were before, that they'd live together again and everything would be alright.

Now _nothing_ is alright anymore, and Sherlock knows it won't ever be alright again.

He lies back down, rolls onto his side, and draws the duvet up and over his shoulder, making himself small. His body is aching with the unfamiliar effort of crying like this, and maybe it's his exhaustion that finally makes him slow down, his sobs turning into hiccups, his tears drying down to prickling trails of salt on his skin. He wishes he could just sleep, sleep until it's over, until he wakes and finds that the nightmare has ended and John is there, in his room upstairs, or in the kitchen making tea, or anywhere, really, anywhere close by.

The wounds on his back are pulsing faintly. He's glad that the stitches didn't open up again when he fell. On the other hand, he would have deserved it. He deserved the bloody nose, too, and the cut on his lip and cheekbone.

_John._

He, the one who's always protected him, has turned against him in violence. That says something, doesn't it? Something about Sherlock. He's _wrong_. He's not worthy of John's friendship anymore. Maybe he never was. He broke it all. 

And now John has moved on.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and feels the last remnants of his tears cling his lashes together. He's so utterly, _utterly_ sad.

He takes a deep breath.

He slips into his mind palace without even noticing the transition from reality to the perfect world he's made for himself inside his head, and there's John, sitting in his room, looking up when he enters.

He's smiling.

Sherlock steps towards him, but stops before he reaches him, leaving a careful bit of space between them.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, John," he says.

John gets up and closes the distance between them, putting his hands around Sherlock's face. Sherlock's whole body trembles at the touch of his soft palms brushing his skin, so warm, so _safe_.

"It's okay," John replies. "Come."

He pulls Sherlock with him, walking backwards until his legs bump against the wooden frame of his bed. Sherlock's heart is hammering as if this was the very first time they'd been together like this.

"I did it all for you," he whispers.

John just keeps smiling his sweet smile and nods.

"Come," he repeats.

Sherlock stops thinking then.

John's eyes are like the ocean, and his voice is like honey. His kiss takes Sherlock's air away, but John shares his breath with him, and Sherlock drinks it in and allows himself to fall. He's not scared of letting go, not now. John is here, and that's all that matters.

John makes him forget.

Afterwards, they lie together in the stillness of John's room, entangled in each other, and John runs his fingers through his hair and hums low, lazy sounds against the top of his head.

And Sherlock sleeps.

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 5:  **Sunday, 18 th May 2014**


	5. Flashback: The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might recognise Sherlock's part from a ficlet I posted a while ago (I don't think many people read it, though). I'm very fond of this ficlet. I tried to write Sherlock's after-wedding scene several times, but it never turned out quite as good as what I'd already written and posted, so I decided to re-write the ficlet and use it here. IMO it fits perfectly, and stealing from one's own ideas is probably not so bad. I hope you'll enjoy!

**Sunday, 18 th May 2014 – John**

It's his wedding day, the happiest day of his life.

And John is sad.

It was a beautiful ceremony, a beautiful reception, and he's got a beautiful wife. Everything's perfect, just the way they (she) imagined it, wanted it.

Now he's standing outside, pretending to need a bit of fresh air, and somehow, everything _sucks_.

Mary is pregnant. _Pregnant._ How can she be pregnant? They always used protection. Of course, John is a doctor, and he knows that these things happen. He just never thought they'd happen to _him_.

He doesn't know how he feels about being a father so soon. Sure, when they started this relationship, he imagined what it would be like, and he found the idea not entirely off-putting. But now that it's really happening, he finds himself in shock, and despite his efforts to block it out, a voice inside him keeps insisting that this is not what he wants for himself at all.

Seeing Sholto again has caused long-suppressed memories to resurface, and he's aware of the fact that this might be a reason for the lingering unsettling feeling in his stomach, for the annoyingly persistent inkling that this is all _wrong_. Is this what his life is supposed to be?

Sholto and Sherlock. They're so different, and yet… Looking at them together, being in the same room with both of them, confused John more than he's ready to admit. He remembers feelings he shouldn't have had in the past when he looks into Sholto's steely eyes, but they're veiled and softened by time and his reluctance to accept them. When he meets Sherlock's kaleidoscope gaze, he _feels_ things he shouldn't feel _now_ , which is much worse.  

Mary calls it hero worship.

John wonders if that's what it is.

Sherlock has already left. John doesn't know when – or why, for that matter. He's disappointed, and lonely, and he misses his friend. His best friend. He's tempted to leave, too, and go to Baker Street and ask Sherlock what's wrong and why the hell he went and fled from the scene after giving a speech that was basically a vow of unconditional, undying… love.

John finds himself struggling to believe it, but it's true. Whichever way you look at it, there's no denying that Sherlock told John he _loved_ him in this speech, and John recalls every tiny detail of the moment he hugged him, even if he tries to push it away. His hair and its orange-blossom scent, his ear pressing against John's cheek, so _warm_ , and his surprised gasp when John's arms held him close.

It still makes his heart ache to think about how perplexed Sherlock was when he asked him to be Best Man, and he asks himself whether no one has ever given the other man the feeling of being wanted, being _needed_ , even – if no one has ever made him feel like he's worthy of affection. Despite being so intelligent, despite being able to outsmart any given person when it comes to doing what his work requires him to do, Sherlock is so awkward in the face of private social interaction that it's almost funny. It's like he's got two personalities.

And now he's gone and abandoned John, and John is so taken aback by this behaviour that he can't even be angry at him. He only feels _lost_.

"John?" Mary calls, and he turns around to see her waving at him. "Are you coming back inside, darling?"

 _She's going to throw the bouquet_ , John thinks randomly. The husband should probably be present for that.

"Coming!" he replies, and she nods and vanishes again.

How he wishes Sherlock was here.

John sighs and rubs his hands across his eyes, telling himself to get it together. He feels like an extra in a play he doesn't know the script for, but he's determined to catch up.

He's married now. They'll throw the damn bouquet and eat the damn cake, and then they'll dance a bit more, and then they'll go home and have sex and go on their honeymoon and buy a house and get a dog and have a damn _baby_ , and they'll be happy, so _happy_ , DAMN IT!

Damn it.

**Sunday, 18 th May 2014 – Sherlock**

Sherlock gets home and takes off his suit and just leaves it lying on the bedroom floor. Then he puts on his pyjamas and a dressing gown and makes his way to the fireplace, where he opens his secret compartment and takes out the small wooden box which holds his emergency stack.

He knew it would come in handy one day. He purchased an assortment of his favourite distractions a while ago, on a day which proved to be particularly trying with regards to the wedding preparations. Billy was rather surprised to see him again, but he did his job, and now Sherlock is glad he's planned ahead.

He wouldn't know how else to get through this night.

He doesn't have to think hard to come up with the cocktail he hopes will give him relief – he saw to it that the substances are all more or less compatible with each other when he bought them. Calculating the required amounts in his head, he walks over to the couch, where he sits down and starts to pick and prepare what he needs.

Taking the pills is easy. Giving himself the injection takes a bit more effort, but he doesn't hesitate for long. He's had to do worse things to himself while he was away, and he still remembers the sweet haze that follows the prick, even though the last time was so, so long ago. He knows it's worth it.

His lids already fluttering, he then reaches for pen and paper (which are very conveniently sitting there in the box along with all the tiny plastic bags – past him is a genius!) and notes down a list for Mycroft. Not bothering to fold it neatly, he shoves it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

He registers dimly that his body is slumping, ever so slowly, to the side, but he couldn't stop it even if he tried.

He passes out.

He dreams of John and Mary, dancing to the sound of him playing his violin. He wants to stop, wants to run from the stage; he can't _bear_ looking at them like this. John's gentle smile, the way he pulls her against his body as they move across the floor, the tender kisses. Sherlock can't breathe. He needs to get away, but he can't. He has to keep on playing, his hands and arms no longer obeying the commands his brain gives them.

His heart is breaking, and it hurts more than anything he's ever felt before.

The image lasts forever, and he feels nauseated by it. Even as he drifts in and out of consciousness, the nightmare persists, showing him John John _JOHN_ and his new life, his new baby, his future without Sherlock.

Then John is suddenly gone, and Mary too, and there's no stage and no dancefloor anymore – it's all just black. And empty. He's all alone now.

All alone.

In a brief clear moment he worries he might be sick, and he knows he won't be able to get up and go to the bathroom.

 _Poor Mrs Hudson_ , he thinks before darkness envelopes him once more.

He suffers through it, somehow managing to not throw up after all, and he feels himself go number now, an endless void opening up in front of him that sucks any and all emotion out of his being and leaves him floating in nothingness. It doesn't feel good, but it doesn't really hurt anymore either, and that's at least something.

After yet another indeterminate stretch of time has passed, something disturbs the silence inside and around him, and he comes to, his mind slow and reluctant to leave its senseless, spaced-out state.

“So… how did not getting  _involved_  work for you, brother mine?” a soft voice asks.

Opening his heavy lids takes an immense effort, and the insane way shapes and colours merge to make up a distorted image of his living-room makes Sherlock's head swim.

_Am I on the couch?_

He looks up to where the soft voice is coming from, and there he is. His dearest brother.

Mycroft's cold, reptilian smile falters as he looks into his younger brother's eyes, and Sherlock wonders what it is that he’s seeing there. Mycroft leans down to grab Sherlock's upper arms, and with a small grunt he hauls him into a sitting position. Sherlock groans, but complies. He knows his brother is not going to go away, and he’s  _so_  tired…

“Where’s your list?” Mycroft asks and sits down next to him. “You look repulsing. How much did you take?”

Sherlock laughs at the ceiling, his head lolling to the side. From his pocket, he produces the crumpled piece of paper and hands it to Mycroft, who takes a brief look at it and then puts it away somewhere – Sherlock can’t watch, because the other man's brisk movements make him dizzy.

“Should’ve come to th’wedding, brother--- mine…” he slurs. “ _Such_  a…  _beautiful_  wedding…”

Mycroft clears his throat.

“God  _damn_  it, Sherlock,” he says, very pointedly.

Then he puts his arms around Sherlock and pulls him against his chest. 

_What…?_

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispers. “It must hurt a lot.”

Sherlock wants to push him away, wants to ask him if he's lost his mind, but he can’t. He just _can't_. Because Mycroft's hands feel so warm and calming on his back. And because it _does_  hurt.

A lot.

So he allows himself to settle against his brother's shoulder and closes his eyes. Mycroft smells of laundry detergent and cigarettes and cold night air.

“Sleep it off now,” the older man murmurs into Sherlock's hair. “I’ll stay until Mrs Hudson comes back.”

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 6: **Monday, 9 th March 2015** 


	6. Flashback: Another Bad Day

**Monday, 9 th March 2015 – John**

Sherlock's asleep, and John takes in the faded bruises around his eye and the almost-healed cut on the bridge of his nose and swallows his guilt. He did this.

He's not feeling guilty for hitting him. But he's feeling guilty for enjoying it so much.

It felt good.

It felt good to hurt him, to hear him grunt in pain.  _So good._

John despised him so much right then that it still gives him a perverted thrill of pleasure to remember it. His ramblings, the way he flailed, scalpel in hand, high as a kite. His crazy eyes. It riled him up, and he wanted him to stop.

He really only wanted to disarm him – at first. But then it all went out of control, and suddenly John was high, too. High on the hot pain spreading through his fingers after slapping Sherlock's face, on the way his knuckles pulsed when his hands became fists and collided with those arrogant, too-beautiful-to-be-real cheekbones, on the scent of blood and fear tingeing the air. On the softness of Sherlock's midriff when John kicked and kicked and _kicked_ , and on the barely-there _crack_ of his ribs when they finally snapped.

He  _hated_  him. For using again. For disregarding his own life as if it belonged only to him, as if the people who love him (or at least used to do) didn't count. For manipulating him into coming back and doing this, for making him fall head over heels into madness again, into Sherlock Holmes' little game. And he's  _insane_ ; he's lost it for real this time, and John is supposed to just play along. Despite everything Sherlock has done to him.

No.

Not again.  _Never_  again.

_I killed his wife._

Yes, you fucking _did_.

Sherlock made John go back to Mary, made them make up after she shot him. Made John  _forgive_. Became godfather. Promised to protect her at all costs. And then he got her killed.

Now she's gone, all because Sherlock couldn't keep his damn mouth shut  _just this once_ , and how can he ever carry on now? What about Rosie? His life's in ruins. He had it all planned out so perfectly, now that it was all out in the open. A new start for Mary, and a new start for himself. As a family. It's all lost now.

 _He_ is lost.

John doesn't know what to do, and not even Mary's ghost provides him with insights as to how to proceed. She made him save Sherlock. Made Sherlock save him, whatever that means.

What for?

For half-hearted conversations and awkward hugs in front of the fireplace? For tea and cake and long-overdue birthday deductions?

Whenever he asks her what the hell he's supposed to make of it all, she just disappears.

It'll never be the same again.

Even if Sherlock manages to get clean (and John doubts he will, from the way things are looking right now), it won't ever be the way it was before… everything. He wonders if it's even worth trying.

He looks at Sherlock, who's lying on the couch, completely out of it, and tries to forget how this face used to haunt him all those weeks ago, up until the day he returned and began to wreak havoc in John's life again. Bitter, all-consuming regret fills him then, and he has to cover his face with his hands for a moment to gather his composure. They used to be so good together. Why did Sherlock have to go and fuck it all up?

His heart clenching in his chest, John allows his gaze to return to the huddled-up figure half-hidden under a thick woollen blanket. Sherlock seems tiny right now. It's John's watch this afternoon, and he knows the younger man has been awake for days. When John arrived and took over for Molly, Sherlock barely had the strength to greet him. He just lay there, completely exhausted, and then drifted off. He says he wants to go cold turkey, but John is not convinced.

Sherlock is in pain – he can tell. He's sweating and twitching even in his sleep, his skin sallow, his lips dry and cracked. He looks like a mere shadow of himself, unable to think, to speak, to move. John knows that this can't be easy for a man who takes pride in having complete and flawless command of his body and mind at all times, for someone so brilliantly intelligent that sometimes the sheer speed of his own ideas gives him headaches.

But something is off, and John is sure that this isn't over yet.

They're watching his every step. They follow him everywhere, day and night. They even make him leave the door open when he goes to the loo.

But still.

Somehow, John doesn't believe it. 

And if he's really honest, he isn't even sure if he still cares.

**Monday, 9 th March 2015 – Sherlock**

_Go to hell, Sherlock. Go right into hell, and make it look like you mean it._

He did. He went to hell, and he's still there, and it didn't even need Mary's encouragement, because he'd made the decision long, long before she told him to. Without John,  _everything_  is hell. The drugs only helped him to hit rock bottom a little faster.

_I'm never climbing out._

Never.

_Can't do it, not now. Not alone._

But he  _is_  alone now.

John and Mrs Hudson and Molly and Mycroft are there all the time, but he's still alone, and no amount of monitoring will ever change the fact that John has stopped believing in him. He's stopped  _liking_  him, even. Sherlock's brain is muddled most of the time, sometimes because of the pills and needles he sneaks in whenever he gets the opportunity (it's easiest with Molly, most difficult with Mycroft), and sometimes because his body wants more, more-more- _more_  of it, but doesn't get it. He just wants to numb himself a little, to finally be able to function again, without pain, without _sentiment_. So yes, he's not been able to think clearly for a while now. But he knows John's had enough.

It's often hard to pretend not to notice, but John gives him enough material to work with, being so busy pretending himself. Pretending to care.

Sherlock's full bladder woke him from a light, restless slumber ten minutes ago, and he can feel John's presence in the room with him. He keeps his eyes shut, though, because it's such a relief not to be forced to act his part.

Whenever it's John's turn to watch him, Sherlock tries to get a few hits into himself beforehand, just to take off the edge. If he doesn't, the memories are too much, still too fresh, and he can't handle them yet.

John's empty eyes, the hard purse of his lips, the faint scent of his aftershave – it all brings him back to the morgue, to the sensations of John's fists hitting his face, John's feet breaking his ribs. He deserved it; he knows that. But he's still scared.

He killed Mary.

He took away John's wife, Rosie's mother, and he was supposed to protect her,  _die_  for her if need be, and now nothing will ever be okay again.

Why even try?

John sneezes.

Sherlock can't help but jerk at the sound breaking the silence around them, thus giving away that he's awake, and so he slowly opens his lids and looks at the other man.

"Bless you," he mutters, trying to make it sound slurry, sleepy.

John just nods.

Sherlock sits up, groaning softly as his aching joints and healing bruises and fractures protest, and then rises to stand in front of John.

"I need to pee," he tells him. "Can I please go alone?"

John scoffs, but there's no mirth in it.

"No," he replies curtly and gets up as well. "It's too early for that."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Why is John doing this? Out of a sense of obligation as his former best friend? Because he's a doctor? Because he hasn't realised that he doesn't _want_ to do it yet?

"Are you going to stand by the door or would you like to come and hold my cock for me, just to make really, really sure?" he snaps, and he doesn't really know where this came from, given that he usually just accepts his fate and tries to hide the fact that he's been using up his emergency reserves whenever his watchdogs look the other way, but today he just couldn't stop himself.

He's so fed up with it all.

John stops dead in his tracks and stares at him, and for the fraction of a second Sherlock sees something strange flicker up in his gaze, something like fury and guilt and embarrassment, all mingled together, but it's gone before he can get a clearer deduction.

"Come on," John says coldly. "Let's get it over with."

They walk over to the bathroom and John does stand in the open door while Sherlock pees, and Sherlock tries to focus on the fact that it's just transport right now, and that John has seen him without clothes before, and that the things that come to Sherlock's mind when he thinks of  _himself standing there with his penis out_  and  _John looking at him and his naked body_  will never,  _never_  occur to John anyway. (Even if they did, John would be repulsed by them.)

He shakes off and attempts to tuck himself back into his pyjamas, but suddenly John is beside him, grabbing his wrist to hold him back.

"What's that?" he asks sharply, and Sherlock knows that he's seen it. He was too upset, too lost in his thoughts – he wasn't careful enough this time.

Oh, _no_.

"Please let me go," he says lowly, fighting to stay calm, and tries to pull away, but John's grip is strong, and he uses his free hand to pull down Sherlock's trousers a little further and expose his left hip.

Feeling almost as if he was dreaming, Sherlock looks down and sees the dark injection marks, standing out clearly against his too-pale skin, and he's ashamed that John is staring at them too, and at his most private parts, and he's so terribly uncomfortable because John is standing _so close_ to him, and it's all _wrong_ , but he doesn't have time to ponder over that for long.

It all happens so quickly.

He's on the floor, his back throbbing from hitting the hard tiles at considerable speed, and John's hand is on his throat,  _squeezing_.

"How  _dare_  you?" John hisses, his knee pressing into Sherlock's side, into his broken ribs. It hurts a lot. "Am I doing it all for  _this?_  For you finding new spots to inject yourself? Am I neglecting my daughter, my job, my  _life_  for this? Is this how you pay us back for trying to _save_ you?"

Sherlock can't breathe. John is pushing too hard. He writhes to free himself, but his dressing gown has bunched up beneath him, trapping his arms, and the waistband of his trousers is cutting into his thighs. He's still very aware of his own nakedness, although his shame is slowly going fuzzy around the edges.

John is choking him.

John

              is going to

                                      kill him.

"You worthless piece of  _shit_ ," John spits, his nose only inches from Sherlock's, so close that Sherlock can't make out his face anymore. "This is the last time. I'm _never_ coming back. Do you hear me? You can go and do it on your terms now. You selfish _arsehole_."

He lets go of him, and Sherlock gasps, sucking in a large, painful breath of air. He's feeling sick and dizzy, his vision flickering in and out around large black dots dancing in front of his eyes, his brain screaming for oxygen. Blood is roaring in his ears.

When his head has cleared a bit, he sees that John is already making his way out of the door. Before he's all the way outside, he turns around and looks at Sherlock one last time.

"Just overdose and die, why don't you?" he asks, his voice hollow.

Then he leaves.

Sherlock hears the door of the flat slam shut, then angry footsteps down the stairs.

Then nothing.

And a few moments later, Mrs Hudson's worried voice, and then her face above him, shocked, disbelieving.

He starts to cry.

She kneels down beside him and gingerly prods his neck with her fingertips. He flinches and tries to evade the touch, his hands clawing at thin air, spasming in pain. There's the taste of blood in his mouth, warm and metallic, and he wonders if he's bitten his tongue.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson breathes shakily. "Oh--- _God_."

He shakes his head, tears dripping down his temples and into his hair, snot running from his nose. He can't speak. He's so cold.

Everything

 _hurts_.

"Sshhh," she whispers. "It's okay."

She reaches up to pull the towel off the hook by the sink and covers his exposed groin with it, then pulls a mobile phone from the pocket of her cardigan.

"I'll call your brother, dear. It's going to be alright. Just--- just wait a moment, yes? I'll help you up."

He watches her make the call, sees her lips move, but he doesn't hear a word.   

_Die, why don't you?_

John is right, he thinks.

Why doesn't he?

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 7: **Wednesday, 23 rd September 2015**


	7. Flashback: First Steps

  **Wednesday, 23 rd September 2015 – Sherlock**

Sherlock is pacing his room, completely exhausted, but feeling so restless that even sitting seems impossible, let alone lying down in his bed and trying to sleep.

John is back.

 _John_.

He's moved back in, with Rosie, and they're working again, and Sherlock can't believe it – in his head, he's gone over this scenario so often in the last couple of months that he's scared he's by now mixing up imagination and reality. Is this him stuck in his mind palace again, like the time he tried to solve the case of Emelia Ricoletti? But he was high back then, and he hasn't taken anything ever since the day John found the marks on his hip and punished him for going behind his back.

Not a single pill to keep him awake, or a single line of cocaine to help him work. Not a single injection to make him forget.

It wasn't his own choice – not at first.

Mycroft put him back together after picking him up from the bathroom floor (Mrs Hudson hadn't been able to lift him, after all), tended to his wounds, and told him that they wouldn't be able to do this on their own and that he needed to pack a bag and come with him right away.

Sherlock was so tired, was hurting so much that it didn't fully register with him what doing all that might imply, but when he came back to his senses and found himself in a locked room in a rehab clinic in what looked like rural Scotland, he _fought_. He fought for a day and a half, and then withdrawal set in with vengeance, and that was when he stopped resisting and simply tried to stay alive. He didn't even want to, really – John was gone, so what was the point? His body, however, had different ideas, and its survival instincts were so strong that somehow, after almost two weeks of suffering, he emerged on the other side and found himself weak, but, and it took him a while to recognise the feeling for what it was, _hopeful_.

He knew that despite everything, what he'd said to Culverton Smith was still true. He didn't want to die. He wanted John to return to him. He wanted his old life back. He knew he'd deserved the pain John had inflicted on him, because _he_ had hurt John before. He'd betrayed his trust. It was him who had to apologise – not John.

When he got back home, Mrs Hudson fussed over him and Mycroft kept a close watch on his doings and whereabouts, both of them not quite prepared to believe that it was really over for good. Sherlock didn't hold it against them. He understood that before things could go back to normal, he'd need to prove it to all of them first. He himself was confident that he'd never use again, because slipping would mean losing John forever.

Of course he couldn't be sure that exactly that hadn't already happened, but something Mrs Hudson said to him over tea and biscuits one rainy afternoon gave him the strength to hold on. "Give him some time," she said. "He'll be back. He's in a bad place right now, but he'll knock on your door one of these days. If you still want him around, he'll come back to you." Sherlock soaked up her words and the relief they offered him, but decided to ignore the last part – why should he ever _not_ want John around? He found it easy to believe in the rest, though, because John had done it before, back when Sherlock returned from the dead. John would forgive him eventually.

While he waited, Sherlock worked. It wasn't good without John, but it was something to take his mind off missing him. His brain, alert and fully functional again after months of swinging back and forth between near-delirium and overdrive, enjoyed being used and tested, and his health took yet another turn for the better. He gained some weight. His wounds healed. He slept at least every other day.

And then Eurus appeared on the scene, and he found out what had become of Victor, and he got John back all of a sudden just to almost lose him again right away.

After everything was over, Sherlock returned to his destroyed home, sat down on the dusty remnants of his couch, and put it all in his mind palace, stored it in boxes and locked them away, because it was just too much to be dealt with all at once. The memory of John looking at him when they pulled him out of the well was the only one that didn't go into a box. He kept that one and took it to bed with him that night, and regardless of how much he told himself to be careful and not expect too much, too soon, he couldn't help but be a little happy for the first time in years.

Mrs Hudson's prediction came true a few days later. John came back and helped him to sort out the flat, and when they were finished, they took on a case, and then another one, and after that one had been solved, Sherlock, still high on the chase, asked John to move back in.

John said _yes_.

Every so often, Sherlock catches himself thinking back to John trying to say sorry for what happened _that day_. He feels embarrassed to know that John thought he was the one to blame. He, Sherlock, brought it all upon himself, and all he wants is to move forward now and forget about the past. He knows John couldn't help it. He was disappointed and upset, and falling hard was exactly the thing Sherlock needed to finally do something about his problems. It wasn't John's fault. It was his.

Sherlock also sometimes wonders what Mary meant when she said that she knew what he and John could become once she was gone. She seemed convinced they could go back to what they were before she came along, and despite his fear of having broken things between them that can't be mended, Sherlock wants to trust her. He's come to terms with the fact that John will never reciprocate his feelings in all their intensity. He'd never get involved like that with another man – he's stated that numerous times. And even if he _was_ open to same-sex relationships, Sherlock is sure he'd never fall for _him_. He's put him through too much. He's alright, if not necessarily content, with having to fantasise whenever the urge to be closer to the other man becomes too strong and distracts him from his work, and afterwards it's always better for a while. He'd never make demands – he'll take whatever John is willing to give. All this time ago, they started out as roommates. Sherlock hopes they can become more than that again.

Now John is here, right above his head, and Sherlock's heart and mind are all over the place. He never allows himself the weakness of human sentiment, because it's irrational and a hindrance and simply not worth his time. However, he makes an exception for John. He surrendered to John and his voice and his eyes and the way he smiles such a long time ago, even if the other man doesn't – _mustn't_ – know. It's so good to have him back. But is he really here to stay? He wouldn't have made the decision to come back and bring Rosie if he didn't mean it to be permanent, would he?

Is he really here?

Before his mind can stop his body from moving and doing something that's surely very stupid, Sherlock is already tiptoeing out of his room and up the stairs. He _has_ to know. In front of John's closed door, he stops and puts his ear against the dark-brown wood. There's no sound, no proof that two people are sleeping behind it. His pulse accelerates. He knows he's clean, he tells himself. He _knows_ he's not hallucinating this time.

He should just go back to bed.

His fingertips touch the handle of John's door, only lightly at first. It's smooth and cold and _real_. John is inside, warm and alive. He has to see him, just this once. His hand tightens its grip and pushes down the handle and he opens the door, just a little bit, just to be able to peer inside.

John inhales audibly and sits up in his bed, his hair ruffled, his eyes squinting against the light.

John.

"Sorry," Sherlock breathes. "I didn't mean to wake you."

_I just wanted to see if you're really here._

Suddenly, his whole body feels so light. He can rest easy after all. Everything is okay.

He's really, really tired now.

"Sorry, John. Go back to sleep."

He closes the door, very softly, and walks back down the stairs, and then he goes to his room and lies down in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. His lids are heavy.

_John is back._

He closes his eyes and wraps his heart around that thought, and it's so sweet that he dozes right off and dreams about John in his pyjamas, holding him tight. Some time later, he wakes up and thinks (dreams?) he can hear someone breathing just outside his door, but he's so drowsy and comfortable that he can't make himself move to get up and check.

 _I'm probably imagining things_ , he muses lazily before he drifts off again.

**Wednesday, 23 rd September 2015 – John**

The first night he spends back at Baker Street, John can't sleep. He lies in his bed, eyes wide open, and watches the shadows wander across the walls of his room, listening to Rosie snoring softly in her cot. He's glad she's only so little. He's glad that when she's older, she won't remember the days leading up to the here and now.

He thinks about Sherlock, who's in his own room right now, maybe sleeping like Rosie, maybe lying awake as well, and wonders how the other man feels about it all.

John _does_ remember, and he's sworn to himself he'll never forget.

He remembers abandoning Sherlock after finding out about his relapse, after attacking him yet _again_ , and for a moment his remorse makes him feel so sick that he's scared he'll throw up. He did, out of shame, out of disgust for himself, that evening. Several times. He knelt in front of his toilet and kept heaving until his stomach cramped and his throat was sore and there was only bile left in him. He didn't cry, although he really wanted to. He _couldn't_. That night, Mary left for good. She watched him, there on the bathroom floor, and when he tried to speak to her, she looked at him in a sad, disappointed way, and then just vanished. And she never came back. Maybe he wasn't mourning her enough.

John also remembers sleeping so little and drinking so much in the week that followed that one day he forgot to pick Rosie up at Molly's after work. In his stupor, he simply forgot that he had a daughter, and he still hates himself for it. That day, he just went to the pub as soon as his shift ended and stayed until the bar closed, and then he took a cab home and just carried on drinking. He drank the whisky straight out of the bottle and never noticed that his phone was still on mute, and when the doorbell finally rang, he simply didn't react. He was on the floor by then, and he didn't care who wanted him, and he couldn't have gotten up even if he'd tried. When they broke the lock and entered the flat, he laughed. What an unlikely pair they were, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade went into his messy kitchen (he hadn't cleaned it for weeks) and made him coffee and Mycroft hauled him to the bathroom and into the shower, and as the cold spray rained down on him, drenching his clothes and making him shiver, strong hands shook his shoulders and a silky, yet furious voice said: "If you kill yourself, John, my brother will die. You know it. He'll _die_. Now tell me, what will happen if Sherlock kills himself?" John, his eyes closed, pressed his lips together. He knew it, but it was too hard to admit. " _What_ , John?" Mycroft insisted, and John knew it was no use. "I'll die," he whispered. His teeth began to chatter then, and his head cleared enough to make the realisation hurt. "I'll die," he repeated, and then he opened his lids to look at the man holding him up. The hands gripping him loosened their hold then, and Mycroft switched off the water and sighed. He looked very, very old. "Glad we're on the same page. Now _get yourself together_ , for God's sake."

He remembers trying therapy again, and meeting the third Holmes sibling, and then there were explosions and mind games and things he's pushed to the very back of his head because they're too gruesome to comprehend. Death. Torture. A child's bones in a well with him. Being scared for his own life, and for Sherlock's. Asking himself whether he'd ever see his daughter again. Whether he'd ever get to make it up to her.

John doesn't want, can't _bear_ the memories of everything his time down there made him think about, but he'll never forget being pulled out and seeing Sherlock, shaken, but unharmed, waiting for him, and he still wishes he had just hugged him then, tightly, and asked him for forgiveness.

He never got the chance to do that. Sherlock didn't want him to.

When they started working together again and re-built the flat, he tried to say sorry. They were on the couch, tired from a day of moving rubble and cleaning sooty furniture, and John started to apologise then, but Sherlock interrupted him and said he wanted a fresh start, and that it was okay. He said he'd made mistakes, and that he didn't want John to feel bad. He looked at him so pleadingly, his whole expression raw and open and so very vulnerable, that John, overwhelmed, nodded and dropped the subject. They never talked about it again. John recalls sneaking glances at Sherlock's face afterwards and yearning to reach up and wipe away the smudge of dirt that stained his cheekbone, and he also recalls the warm, pulsing sensation spreading in his chest as they sat together in silence, drinking their tea. He didn't have a name for it then.

He moved back in as soon as the rooms were inhabitable again, because Sherlock asked him to, and because nothing in his life had ever felt so right.

He often thinks of Mary's last message and what it implied, and he knows she was wrong. It _does_ matter what – and who – they are. What they are made them do the things they did and didn't do, and it brought them here, to where they are now. Sherlock is brilliant, a mastermind, but he's also an addict with self-destructive tendencies. John is a soldier and a healer, but he's also an abuser. What they are will influence each and every step they take from here, and John knows that it probably won't be easy to get back to how it was before.

He's convinced that they _should_ talk. But if avoiding the issue is enough for Sherlock, it's enough for him, at least for now. It's all still so fragile between them, and he's afraid that insisting on addressing the events of the past might break the bond that they've re-established, might rip open the healing wounds all over again. So he stays quiet and lets Sherlock take the lead.

John wishes he could travel back in time to that very first day and do everything differently. He regrets so many things. The sensation of warmth and peace and _belonging_ that fills him whenever Sherlock is close by is still there. He thinks about what happened during the years Sherlock was away, and he's still ashamed of the visions that kept assaulting him during his long, lonely nights, but he also allows himself to wonder if they mean that the feelings he's consciously experiencing now have been there _all along_ , and if so, why he never noticed them before.

By now, even though he has no idea how to deal with it all, he also knows their names.

In the quiet semi-darkness of his old bedroom, John looks inside himself and stares in awe at what he can't describe with words that will do it justice. _Love_ is just so plain, so over-used a word. _Want_ is not nearly strong enough to explain the heady, irresistible pull he feels when he looks at the man who used to be his best friend. Has Sherlock always been this beautiful?

John is so very scared.

He's been taught that feeling such things is wrong, sick, an unforgiveable sin. He's had it beaten into him, again and again, until he _believed_. The rational part of him is aware of the fact that he shouldn't care, that this is more important than anything has ever been before. But no matter how he longs to shake them off, his fear and self-loathing are still very much there.

And then there's also the question whether Sherlock could ever feel the same. Does he feel these things at all? Could he feel them for John, in spite of all the times John hurt him – both with words and his hands?

What would happen if John tried to find out?

His mind spinning, he settles back against his pillow, determined to at least _try_ to fall asleep, but a moment later his door creaks open and a weak ray of yellow light trickles through the crack and hits his face.

He sits up with a start, blinking in confusion. When he realises who's standing there, his heart begins to pound.

"Sorry… I didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock whispers, his voice carrying an undertone that John can't identify. "Sorry, John. Go back to sleep."

The door closes again.

John stares at the place where he saw Sherlock's pale, wide-eyed face a second ago, gleaming dots swimming across his vision and painting a negative of the outline of his curly head onto his retinae.

What was that?

He gets up. Somewhere in the back of his mind a slightly panicked voice warns him not to do anything rash now. If he goes downstairs and finds Sherlock there, what is he going to say? What is he going to _do?_

John goes downstairs.

His bare feet make no sound as he walks down the hallway and into the living-room. No Sherlock. He turns and passes the bathroom (empty as well) and tries Sherlock's bedroom instead, coming to a halt in front of the closed door. He must be in there. Has he gone to sleep?

Ever so gently, he puts his palms against the door and inhales its scent. It's mostly dust and wood, but there's also a hint of the man this room belongs to underneath it all.

_Are you there?_

John leans his forehead against the door and closes his eyes, half-wishing for Sherlock to hear him and call his name, half-terrified that he really might do exactly that.

Nothing happens.

John stays there, his hands and face pressed against the door separating him from everything he wants, until his feet begin to freeze.

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 8: **Thursday, 11 th August 2016 (Part II)** 


	8. The Day After - Part Two

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – John**

After tea, Mrs Hudson leaves and John puts Rosie in her cot for her afternoon nap. When he gets back to the living-room, Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, apparently waiting for him to join him.

"Hey," John says and sits down in his own chair. "Have you found us a new case yet?"

He feels weirdly jittery, and it's hard to meet the other man's eyes. Talking about work seems to be the easiest conversational topic right now. Sherlock exhales through his nose, loudly, and it sounds as if he was bracing himself.

"There are a few promising ones, but they don't appear to be very urgent, so I deemed it more useful to make some time for--- the two of us. To… talk," he replies. "I know you feel the need to, and although I find it difficult, I know your desire to address our--- past is justified."

John is perplexed. Leave it to Sherlock to surprise him yet again and get to the point straight away.

John forces himself to look at his friend. Even if it's him who insisted on having this conversation, he now feels strangely uneasy. His palms are sweaty, and he wishes he had something to occupy his hands with. He puts them on the armrests of his chair and digs his fingertips into the familiar pattern of the threadbare fabric covering them.

"That's… very considerate of you. Thank you."

His voice is shaking a tiny bit, and Sherlock wouldn't be himself if he didn't notice.

"John. If you changed your mind, we can wait. We don't have to talk right now."

John huffs and half-grins at the younger man to show his appreciation of this offer.

"Thanks," he says. "But we both know that we do, Sherlock."

Sherlock inclines his head.

"We do," he answers softly.

Then he looks at John. And waits.

A few minutes pass.

"I never wanted to be a father," John says. "I'm still not sure I'm a good one."

It was the first thing on his mind, and it hurts to admit it, and it's true.

"Sometimes I wish I could just go back to how it was before--- before everything, Sherlock. Before I met Mary. Before I got her pregnant. Before--- before you jumped. Somehow I always imagine that if that hadn't happened, everything would be okay now. I know it's unfair to blame it all on that, and I know it's not the truth, but--- I like to think it all started back then."

He's talking quickly, anxious to relieve himself of the words before his courage leaves him. Sherlock is still gazing at him in silence, his eyes inscrutable. He doesn't reply right away.

"I should have told you about the plan, John," he eventually says, his voice even, but tinged with notes of bitter regret. "I caused you so much pain. I'm sorry. I took you for granted, and I didn't trust my own heart when I realised I wanted more from you than what you'd already given me. I should have been braver. It's all my fault."

John shakes his head.

"Stop giving yourself all the blame," he replies. "I never gave you any reason whatsoever to assume that there could be more between us than friendship. I--- It took me a very long time to accept it for myself. My father--- He had very particular ideas about what a real man should be like. And he didn't shy away from using his fists to drive the message home."

Sherlock smiles sadly.

"I know."

John has to swallow. He doesn't ask _how_ he knows. He's Sherlock Holmes – he probably deduced it right along with Harry's alcoholism, on the very first day they spent together. It feels like a lifetime ago.

"I hurt you," he says. "I used my mouth and my fists to make you feel worthless and small and _wrong_. I turned into the person I never wanted to become. I hate myself for it, and I cannot take it back. Never, Sherlock. I'll never forgive myself for doing that to you."

Sherlock averts his eyes and shrugs.

"You didn't learn it any other way. And I gave you many reasons to be furious with me. Too many," he says quietly.

John almost wishes he'd shout at him. He wishes Sherlock was angrier. He doesn't know how to deal with this level of understanding, somehow. It feels wrong. It _is_ wrong.

"You shouldn't forgive so easily," he replies, desperate to make Sherlock understand. "I'm an adult. I haven't spoken to my parents for over twenty years. I make my own decisions, and I decided wrong. Nothing to do with my father, really."

Sherlock shrugs again.

"It's an explanation."

John's hands ball into fists without him telling them to. He breathes deeply, consciously trying to stay calm. Losing control won't help now – but he's determined to make the other man _see_.

"But it's not an excuse, Sherlock. There _is_ no excuse for what I've done. This--- It wasn't me slipping; it wasn't an accident. I _abused_ you. In more than one way. I knew what I was doing. And you just kept coming back for more. I promise I'll never do something like that again, I _promise_ \- but I'll never forgive myself. I _can't_."

Sherlock finally looks back at him and nods slowly.

"I see. I _do_. But John… I shouldn't have kept you in the dark about what I was going to do. You felt abandoned. It's understandable that you turned to someone else to help you cope, and it's understandable that you were angry when I returned so out of the blue. I didn't think, John. I assumed I owned you, and that you'd wait for me. That was the most stupid, arrogant thing I've ever done."

John's mind is racing. It's true – Sherlock behaved like a prick when he came back, and John was dumbfounded by it. It made him furious to be treated like that, especially since it had taken him so much time and effort to eventually move on after a long, strenuous period of grief and despair. However, that still doesn't justify his reaction.

"You only tried to protect me. I didn't know it at the time, but I do know it now. You protected all of us. And you--- you suffered. But maybe you're right. Maybe you should have told me about it all – afterwards, at least. I've been so stupid. Maybe I would have understood what you'd been going through if you'd spelled it all out for me, since I obviously wasn't able to get it on my own. Tell me---" He hesitates. How far will Sherlock allow himself to be pushed? "Tell me what happened to your back, Sherlock."

It's out. Time stops for a moment. Sherlock is looking at him out of wild, silvery eyes, clearly torn between wanting to answer his question and bolting from the room and the memories. John can barely stand it to see him like this, but he needs to know.

After what feels like a small eternity, Sherlock speaks again.

"It was--- It happened near the end of my journey. In Serbia. I'd gotten caught, and of course they wanted to know who'd sent me and what I wanted. When I didn't tell them anything, they tried to… encourage me."

He trails off and looks away once more, gripping the metal armrests of his chair. His knuckles are white.

"You were tortured?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock says flatly.

If John didn't know him so well, he probably wouldn't hear the hurt in his voice, but he does. It kills him to imagine what they did to him, to his sweet, beautiful man. He's so brave. And all the while he, John, was sitting here in London, safe and sound, feeling sorry for himself, betraying him while he was saving his life. If he had gone through with it and jumped that night, it would have been all for nothing. Sherlock will never know about that. He wants to tell him that he sees his sacrifice now. He wants to say sorry again.

But there are no words of apology right now. There's only a black void of guilt, filling him, seeping from his intestines into his limbs, his head, like tar, choking him, enveloping his heart and bearing down on it until it hurts.

"How did you escape?" he asks, just to say _something_.

Sherlock keeps looking at the fireplace.

"Mycroft got me out of there by infiltrating their organisation. It took him a while, but---"

"Are they dead?" John interrupts him.

He wants them to be dead. If they aren't, he'll find them and deal with them himself, with each and every one of them, slowly and with his bare hands. It scares him, but the longing to fight, hurt, _kill_ the people who did this to Sherlock is overwhelming. Sherlock turns his head and frowns.

"They are, John. Mycroft has many flaws, but he's nothing if not thorough."

"Good," John says.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, but doesn't reply. John knows he despises irrational reactions like the one he's experiencing right now, but thankfully he keeps his thoughts to himself.

He tries to collect himself – inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Slowly. Slowly.

Then a memory comes back to him that makes his blood run cold with yet another wave of shock and self-loathing.

" _Sherlock_. Your--- your wounds were still fresh when you came back to me," he states, his voice foreign even to his own ears. It sounds like broken glass.

"John…" Sherlock murmurs.

John flexes his jaw. The tell-tale swelling of white-hot rage undulates through his body, and he tries to fight it down even as his ears begin to roar with white noise. He wants to punch something, wants to _break_ something. He wants to make himself bleed. He wants it to hurt.

" _Were_ they?" he barks, unable to keep his voice down, and Sherlock flinches, and John disgusts himself, but he can't stop. "Tell me the truth, Sherlock. _Tell me!_ "

Sherlock sighs in resignation.

"They were. But you didn't know, John. You were upset, and rightly so. I don't blame you."

John's vision narrows down to a small slot. All he sees is Sherlock in his chair, making himself small. Talking himself small. Unimportant. John is sick; he knows that very well. Has always known it; has always been like that. Addicted to violence to give him release. But Sherlock is sick too. He's allowing himself to be mistreated out of love. And that's worse.

"But _I_ do, Sherlock," he tells him, trying hard to regain some semblance of composure even though deep inside he's screaming. "I blame myself. And you should, too. Maybe you don't want to see it because it would hurt you too much, but I did wrong by you, Sherlock. You'd be right in leaving me, in throwing me out of your flat and your life. I--- I'm a terrible person. A terrible friend. You--- you deserve better than that. I'm--- so sorry. _Fuck_."

Tears are pressing against the back of his throat, and he covers his face with his hands to hide himself. He's so ashamed. It's true – he doesn't deserve this friendship. He doesn't deserve this kind of love. Now he's on the verge of crying because of it, and he doesn't deserve that, either. It's _Sherlock's_ loss, _Sherlock's_ pain. He has no right to claim it for himself, to make Sherlock feel sorry for him. 

"I forgave you long ago, John."

His friend's sweet, soothing voice. It's encompassing him in its richness, its warmth, and John raises his head again and looks into his face.

"Why did you tell me to go back to Mary after she shot you?" he asks without meaning to.

He's been wondering about that for a while, but he never expected he'd ever pluck up the courage to ask.

"Why did you tell me to text Irene?" Sherlock retorts immediately.

John doesn't know. He doesn't know _anything_ anymore. He wants to tell Sherlock so, but what comes out is something else.

"Why do you love me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock freezes at that, looking at him with an expression of complete and utter incomprehension. John is afraid he's said the wrong thing. It just tumbled out of him, just like that. Why do you love me, even though I hurt you so? Even though I hate myself?

"Because… you---" Sherlock stammers, and John can see he's paralysed by the question. "You're---"

He breaks off again, apparently struggling to find the right words, but then something inside of him seems to break open and he takes a deep breath.

"You're the only one who ever saw me for what I really am and still liked me afterwards. You appreciate me. You touch places inside of me that I never knew existed before you came and showed them to me. You're--- you're the only one I've ever felt comfortable with. The only one I've ever been this attracted to. I think of you all the time. When you're not here, I wish you were. I gave you away to Mary because I wanted you to be happy. It killed me to know I'd never have you to myself, but I thought she'd be the one who could give you what you needed. I'd do anything for you. You--- you're _John_. I can't explain it, and I don't even care. It's irrational. I don't know how or why, but I know there will never be anybody else for me but you. No matter what you did. No matter what you'll do."

John feels dizzy. His fury evaporates, being replaced by the most confusing mixture of heartache and bliss. He's blown away by the intensity, the suddenness of this revelation. Before he can answer ( _What am I supposed to say that doesn't sound trivial and shallow, anyway?_ ), Sherlock continues to talk.

"Before you, there was only my brain that mattered. And it was enough. You made my life so much more complicated, John."

_Oh._

"So much _better_."

_Oh…_

"I should never have underestimated that. I should have taken what I wanted long ago. Or at least told you how I feel. But I didn't know how. I didn't know it was possible at all. I want a fresh start, John. For both of us. For--- the three of us. I know it won't be easy. I know building a relationship and raising a child and at the same time continuing to do what we do is hard. I--- I don't know if I'll be good at it. But it's worth trying. Nothing I've ever done has been as important to me as this."

He stops and slumps further back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. He looks drained. John doesn't know how to approach him – despite giving this spectacular declaration of love only seconds ago, he seems miles away right now. And he still hasn't acknowledged the role John, his supposedly best friend, played in the mess they ended up in after Mary's death. Most of it was John's fault. Sherlock needs to accept that.

"Sherlock," he says softly, glad when the other man raises his head and meets his gaze. "I--- It makes me so happy to hear you say that. Happier than I could ever explain to you. But the way you're handling it--- It's not right. We can't build a relationship on this. _I_ can't. I feel like you're blaming yourself for everything I did to you. And that's wrong. It's not healthy, Sherlock. You're worth more than that. I made mistakes, and I beg your forgiveness, but you have to acknowledge that _I'm_ the one who's guilty. You hurt me by leaving me. But I wronged you in the most terrible way. I--- I overstepped a line I should never have crossed. I hated you for a while, and when you returned to me, I wanted to make you pay. And then--- then Mary died, and we had already sort of lost touch somehow, and it was so easy to just cut you out of my life entirely. If Mrs Hudson hadn't forced me to talk to you… I don't know, Sherlock. If you had died because of me neglecting you--- If you really had overdosed, or--- I don't know---" He breaks off and tries to breathe through the panic settling in his chest. "When I attacked you after your relapse, and told you to--- to just die--- _Sherlock_. How can you forgive that? How can you _ever_ forgive that?"

Words fail him then, and he shudders at the images his guilty conscience provides him with.

Sherlock, lying in a dark alley, stabbed to death by another junkie or a dealer.

Sherlock, pale, soaked in sweat, on the floor of this room, spasming, his mouth frothing, gasping for breath. Dying.

And John would have let him. 

"John," Sherlock says lowly and gets up to cross the distance between them and kneel down in front of John, his hands clasped in front of his chest. "I don't want you to feel like this. I--- I still believe your actions were caused by anger and grief and do not represent the man you really are, but… I _do_ acknowledge that they were wrong. I really do by now. Your violence shocked me, because I--- I trusted you, and I never thought you'd ever turn against me like that. And your words hurt even more than your physical attacks, because… I knew they were true---"

John snaps out of his stupor, leans forwards, and puts his hands around the younger man's face to make him stop talking.

"No. _No._ They weren't. You're not responsible for Mary's death, Sherlock. She chose to save you. _She_ did it. There's nothing you could have done to change the way things played out. Nothing. I--- I was so blind. I loved her, at least for a while. But not like I love you, Sherlock. She saved me when I'd lost you. I thought I needed her to. I wanted a new life, a quiet one. But even at the wedding, I started to realise that that wasn't enough. Far from enough. Your speech--- I started regretting it right then, Sherlock. You, the life we had before you went away – it had been the best thing that had ever happened to me. But she was already pregnant, and I didn't want to run from my responsibilities. And I--- I went back to her, even after I found out what she really was. And everything went wrong. _I'm_ the one who fucked up, Sherlock. Not you. I could have stopped it all, on several occasions. But I didn't. I was scared, and confused, and behaving like a bloody idiot. I've wasted so much time. I broke so many things between us. Even when we'd made up, I treated you so--- I did it all wrong, Sherlock. You needed support, and warmth, and all I gave you was fear."

Sherlock's face crumples into an expression of wary sympathy and he leans his cheek into John's hand for a moment before he speaks again.

"What is broken can be repaired, John."

In the dreary afternoon light his eyes look stormy-grey like the sky outside, speckled with flecks of gold, and John can see honest hope in them.

"Can it?" he asks, still holding Sherlock's head. "All of it?"

Sherlock looks away then, his lips quivering, and blinks a few times. John has seen him cry before, but the slow, silent tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes now are new to him. It stings to know he's the reason for them.

"Are you still scared of me, Sherlock?" he asks him, his heart breaking at the realisation that maybe Sherlock _should_ be.

Sherlock presses his lips together tightly, and for a moment John wishes he hadn't asked. He's not sure he'll be able to handle the reply.

"I used to be," Sherlock then answers, and John's heart sinks. ( _What else did you expect?_ ) "When you--- When you checked my body for marks. When you searched the flat for drugs once a week. When Rosie was little and you were sleep-deprived and irritated. You got angry so quickly back then. But… it's better now, John. It really is. I'm comfortable around you now. I know you'll never--- I know it won't happen again."

John gives an exasperated sigh and lets go of Sherlock, nausea bubbling up inside him.

"How?" he wants to know, swallowing hard around the lump of terror in his throat that's threatening to take his air away. "How can you know? What if--- What if it comes back? What if we have a fight one day and I do it again? What if you do something that upsets me and I lose control? How can you be so sure that you're safe with me?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He looks sad, but completely calm. John doesn't understand why.

"You just told me you wouldn't," Sherlock says simply.

John remembers Sherlock's bloody face and the way his pulse fluttered against his palm as he almost strangled him. He feels terrible, mind-numbing fear take over his whole body, chilling him to the bone. How could he promise that he'd better himself? It's inside of him, and it's always been there, ever since he was a boy. Why should it disappear just like that?

"But what _if?!_ " he says again, his fingers digging into his own thighs.

He couldn't bear it if it ever happened again. He'd have to kill himself if it did. It would be better for everyb---

"John! _Stop!_ "

Sherlock almost shouts the last word, and John squeezes his eyes shut. He can't look at that beautiful, trusting face any longer. 

"My dad always apologised afterwards!" he sobs out, his hands shooting up and blindly grabbing Sherlock's shoulders, holding him in a tight grip. "Always! He cried, and he promised it would _never_ happen again, and then the next day, or the next week---"

"John!" Sherlock repeats. "Please. _No_. Look at me. _Look_ at me!"

He forces himself to open his eyes. It's an alien sight that greets him through a veil of his own tears. Sherlock's cheeks are flushed and wet and there are large, sparkling teardrops clinging to his long, dark lashes. He's staring at John with so much pity in his gaze that it's almost unbearable.

"You're _not_ your father, John!" Sherlock says urgently and reaches up to put his hands on John's legs. "I know you won't do it again. I know it. I _trust_ you."

How can he be so guileless? So _stupid?_

"I've betrayed your trust before!"

This time, Sherlock doesn't back away when John raises his voice.

"But you love me now, John," he replies, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John can't believe his own ears.

Sherlock is so smart. How come he doesn't know that John's a monster? How come he's not trying to protect himself?

How in the world can he make him wake up and see that he's better off without him?

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – Sherlock**

"Sherlock!" John shouts, frustration palpable in his voice. "I've loved you _all this time!_ And it made me angry! It didn't stop me from letting it all out on you! And I might do it again! Do you understand?!"

Sherlock gapes at John, feeling his world reverberate with the echo of the other man's words.

"You--- you've _loved_ me?" he asks stupidly. "How--- _how?_ "

John sighs, his brow furrowed, his eyes wild.

"I realised--- or maybe I should say _admitted_ it to myself – about a year and a half ago. Before that… I guess it was just _there_ , but I tried to ignore it. When--- when I told you I'd never wanted to touch another man before you, I--- I lied. I've liked other men. Wanted them. At school, and then, much later, in the army. But I never acted upon it. Told myself I was lonely, confused, mistaking comradeship for attraction and lust. When my sister came out to our parents, all hell broke loose. I--- I was scared our father would kill her. But she ran away and never came back. And then, afterwards… my father poured all his hopes into me, and I didn't want to disappoint him. I _couldn't_. I've been a coward, Sherlock. All my life. I'm--- I'm not the brave soldier people see in me. I'm a fucking closeted _idiot_ with severe anger management issues, and I keep hurting the one person in the world I love the most."

Sherlock looks at him silently, taking in what he's heard while licking salt off his lips. He doesn't know what to say. One minute passes, then two. How could he have missed all this? Could he have helped John to come to terms with what he perceived as his dirty, terrible secret? Should he have tried to investigate when he noticed that John was hiding something, something important lying in his past?

"Please say something," John pleads after the third minute has ticked by without a sound.

"I'm… overwhelmed, John," Sherlock says slowly. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at this. I--- I suppose I should have tried to find out about this part of you sooner. I deduced that your father abused you very early on in our acquaintance, and yesterday, when you told me that you'd been thinking about me for a while, I assumed that he was the reason you didn't approach me right away. But knowing that you--- that I could have tried to have what I have now when we first met--- I'm experiencing the most irrational notion of regret at the moment."

John grimaces, looking desperate with himself. But at least he's stopped crying. They can fix this, Sherlock thinks. They _are_ fixing it right now. He shakes his head and rubs John's knees, enjoying the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric of his jeans.

"We're not the men we were five years ago, John. I dare say _you're_ not even the man you were _one_ year ago. And allow me to say it _again_ \- the things you are afraid of… I know they won't repeat themselves. I don't know anything about relationships or how they work, but I know that despite _everything_ that happened, we're still together. That means something, don't you think? It has to. And I'd like to make it work. I--- I love you, John. I always have."

John wipes his face with the back of his hand and sniffs.

"I love you too, Sherlock. Rosie loves you. I'll start therapy again. I'll do anything to make things right."

_Rosie loves you._

Sherlock is scared of this part – more scared than he's ever been of anything before. This is not only about him and John anymore. There's a tiny human being involved in it all, and he's responsible for her pain and suffering. When she's older, will she hate him for it?

"I--- I've never really allowed myself to open up my heart to your daughter, John," he says, his voice shaking a little. "I--- I thought, how _can_ I, having killed her mother? How can I presume the right to care for her, when I'm the reason why she's motherless in the first place? I'm--- I never wanted to get too attached. I--- I didn't dare to. I feel terrible because of it."

John looks at him then, his dark-blue eyes glowing with an intense emotion Sherlock finds difficult to read.

"You _aren't_ the reason why she's motherless," he says. "I'm _so_ sorry I made you think you were. I was weak, and I couldn't handle being alone with a child so suddenly. I was looking for someone to blame, and you were the easiest choice. Forgive me, Sherlock. Please stop now… Stop thinking like that. It's not true. It never was. Please acknowledge that _I'm_ the one who made mistakes. Please. You won't heal before you do. It'll always be there, in your subconscious, and one day it'll come to the surface, and then the ground will fall from under your feet. I know it. I--- I saw you flinch when I was around, Sherlock, in the time before your relapse. I saw how scared you were. You're traumatised, and it's my fault."

Sherlock shakes his head again, finding himself unable to speak, to reply. He's pushing against the images John's words evoke in him. He doesn't want to think about John like that. That wasn't his John. It was another man, a man who possessed him for a while. John isn't like that. He's not scared anymore. John is his friend, more than that, even. John is allowed to see him at his most vulnerable. John, who was all around him, _inside_ him yesterday, making him feel so good, so loved and complete and _safe_. He _adores_ John. _They are fixing this._ John has to _stop_.

John bites down on his bottom lip and takes a deep breath. He looks so beautiful, Sherlock thinks, and so sad.

"Sherlock," John whispers. "Don't you think I don't want to forget. I do. I wish we could erase what I did from our lives and start all over again. But if we do that, it'll come back and haunt us one day. _Please._ You're more intelligent than the rest of us combined. I can tell you know I'm right. I can tell you're hurting, deep down inside, where you don't allow anyone to look – not even yourself. Please let go, Sherlock. I--- If you want me to, I'll be there to catch you. If you need me to leave, I'll leave. But you need to let go before it can get better for you. Even--- even if that means I'll lose you. Please."

Sherlock closes his eyes. His brain is screaming at him to resist, but something else, something much more basic, is hammering against the door to his mind palace, demanding entry, and he knows he won't be able to fight it off. He was strong enough to do so in the past, but now all his energy has been used up and he feels drained. Weak.

_Surrender._

From far away, he hears John say his name, but he can't answer. He's too far gone already.

He opens the door.

John is there, furious, charging at him. He throws him down onto the floor and is all over him in an instant, his hands around his throat, his knees digging into his sides. His face is contorted in an ugly expression of such hate and contempt that looking at it alone causes Sherlock physical pain, and it's almost worse than the actual blows and kicks that are now raining down on his face and chest. There's blood in his mouth. He feels lightheaded, but he can't move to defend himself. John is merciless in his assault, and Sherlock knows he'll die. His best friend, the man he loves so deeply, is going to kill him. Nothing has ever hurt this much before.

"You worthless piece of _shit_ ," John hisses into his ear, his tone venomous, and then, a lot more gently, he murmurs: "Sherlock? Sherlock, come back."

The room around them flickers out of existence for a moment, and Sherlock blinks in confusion. When it reappears, he realises that John's hands have stopped hitting him. He's alone.

"Sherlock?" John's voice says again. "Can you hear me?"

Hands are holding his upper arms. Shaking him a little.

He gasps and open his lids to see John right in front of him, still sitting in his chair, holding on to him with a worried look on his face. _John._ In reflex, he pulls away and starts to scramble backwards, out of reach of John's arms, and John lets go of him immediately and holds up his hands.

"Sorry," he says. "It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. Oh _God_."

Sherlock, still slightly disoriented, watches him sit back and ball his hands into fists between his knees.

"Sorry," he repeats and licks his lips. "I'm _so_ sorry. Do you--- do you need me to leave you alone?"

"Why?" Sherlock asks without meaning to. His head feels like it's going to explode. "Why did you do that to me?"

John's right hand flies up to his mouth and his eyes fill with tears. Sherlock is torn between the yearning to go to him and take him into his arms and the strong desire to run from him and never look back.

"I don't know," John rasps, and his hand returns to his lap to clasp the one that's already there. "I want to blame it on grief and suppressed emotions and guilt, but the fact is--- I'm--- I'm sick inside, Sherlock. I'm addicted to it. I'm fighting it now, and I--- I promise I'll never hurt you again. I'd rather die than let that happen. But… if you want a reason, I--- I can't give you one. There _is_ none."

Sherlock's heart is beating an erratic rhythm against his ribs, vividly remembering the pain, the horror of seeing John hating him so much, the constant, all-consuming fear.

"I'll understand if you can't be with me anymore, Sherlock," John says, his voice breaking. "I--- I can move out today if you want me to. You shouldn't have to live with this. You--- you don't have to forgive. It's--- okay."

Even in his despair, Sherlock can tell that it's _not_ okay, far from it. John is suffering. John is hurting inside, too. He doesn't _want_ John to leave.

"No," he says, even though he has no idea how they'll get out of this alive. "No. Please. John."

On his knees, he shuffles forwards again until he's close enough to touch – but he doesn't, not yet.

"John," he says again.

_John._

John is chewing the insides of his cheeks, his arms pressed to his sides, stock-still. Sherlock knows he's scared to move, to make contact. He thinks he's not allowed to anymore. He doesn't know that despite everything, he still is.

They stare at each other for what feels like forever.

"John," Sherlock eventually says and cups the older man's jaw in his palm. "I want you to stay. We can fix this."

John exhales loudly, then moans, and it sounds as if his soul was being tortured. Sherlock closes the distance between them and wraps him in his arms to hold him tight. John groans again, his face pressed against Sherlock's neck, his beard scraping his skin.

"I love you. I forgive you," Sherlock whispers, swallowing against the tears rising up inside him, and kisses his temple, then his cheek. "I love you, John. Oh God. I love you so much."

At long last, John's arms come up as well and he slings them around Sherlock's back and grips the fabric of his shirt, as if to make sure that he's really there.

"I don't deserve you, Sherlock," he sighs. "I love you. So, so much. I'll make things right again. I promise. I _promise_."       

Sherlock turns his head until his nose meets John's, and then their mouths touch and he closes his eyes.

"Sherlock… I can't believe how lucky I am," John mumbles softly, and it sounds amazed. "I can't believe you're still here with me."

Sherlock sinks into John as they kiss, a small sigh escaping his parted lips and slipping into John's mouth along with his tongue, and John's palms slide up to hold his head and he gently runs his fingers through his hair.

"Thank you," he whispers against Sherlock's lips. "For forgiving me. For saving me. For wanting me despite all my flaws. I--- I really don't deserve it."

Sherlock caresses the tender skin at the nape of John's neck, drawing back slightly to look at him. He's scared of the future and hopeful and confused, and he's so very, so _desperately_ in love, and it's all too much. He doesn't know what to say, now that they've brought it all out into the open. He feels strangely empty, but it's not uncomfortable. Maybe it's what he needed – to let it all flow out of him, to cleanse himself from what he didn't want to think about, but what kept on poisoning him with every breath he took. He's tired, and he'd give everything to just hide in a dark, warm place now, with John, and hold him forever.

"What are you thinking about?" John asks and tucks some stray curls behind Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock feels himself blush.

"I--- I wish we could go to bed now, John," he says. "I feel words are not enough to conclude this conversation. I--- I'm not sure there _are_ words for what I want to say."

It won't be easy, working through all of this, addressing all the issues standing between them, and he knows there's a long, laborious way lying ahead of them. Nevertheless, he _wants_ John, with all of himself, and he needs to feel him now, to tell him with his body what he can't say any other way.

John shivers.

"Sherlock… Your unique blend of innocence and sex appeal is quite a sight to behold," he replies, barely audibly, and gives him a shy half-grin, and Sherlock's heart begins to beat faster at that.

John trails the shells of Sherlock's ears with his fingers, sending pleasant ripples down his spine.

"God, I want that, too. I can't tell you how much. But it'll have to wait until tonight, I'm afraid… Rosie will wake up soon. And I'm not going to rush this… I want to savour it. I want to--- to give you all of me tonight."

There are promises in his eyes that Sherlock doesn't know how to translate. He's got an inkling, though. He thinks back to what happened yesterday, to John sliding into him, so deep, taking his breath away and giving him pleasure he's never known before, and tries to wrap his head around the idea that their roles could be reversed tonight, that it could be _him_ doing it to John. There's a slow ache pulsing in his loins by now, and he can tell John is in a similar state, judging from his deep, heavy breathing and his dilated pupils.  

They meet in yet another kiss, but after a minute or so Sherlock forces himself to pull back and clears his throat. Desire is burning him up from the inside, and he's sure he'll lose control if they continue like this.

"Then I'll stop now… while I still can," he tells John, his voice thick with suppressed want, and draws out of the other man's embrace to get up from the floor. "I'll visit Lestrade to distract myself until it's… time. What about you?"

John half-groans, half-chuckles exasperatedly and leans back in his chair, rubbing his hands across his face.

"If Rosie lets me, I'll work on the blog. But I don't suppose I'll get much done," he grumbles through his fingers and sighs. Then he looks up again. "I'll be thinking of you."

Sherlock smoothes down his clothes and tells his body to calm down. In the short time they've been together like this, he's already learned about so many new things, new _emotions_ – right now he feels pride at John's dishevelled state, because it's _him_ John wants, _right now_ , and this knowledge gives him thrills of excitement he's never experienced before. Even as he reins in his lust, he revels in how powerful John's longing for him makes him feel.

"Look at you, looking posh and presentable again, just like that," John jokes and disturbs him in his musings. "And I'm sitting here, all hot and bothered, just because of you _kissing_ me."

He gestures at his crotch, and when he follows the movement with his eyes, Sherlock can see what he means. While he himself has already managed to talk himself out of his erection quite successfully (his long years of practice proving useful at last), the evidence of John's arousal is still very obvious. He feels the urge to go and _touch_ , but alas, now's not the time. John is right – this needs to be enjoyed slowly. He decides to take the humorous route.

"If you want to take a cold shower – I can watch Rosie before I go to the Yard," he says and smirks.

John snorts in response and throws his cushion at him, and he dodges it as he moves towards the door. They laugh.

It's good to banter, Sherlock thinks as he watches John rise and adjust himself in his jeans. Unlike relationships, and love, and sex, and all their complicated implications, this at least is familiar territory. And it shows him that their old selves are still there, still hiding underneath it all. With time, they can get them back, and then they'll move on.

John notices him studying him and smiles a little nervously. He still seems to be struggling with the realisation that Sherlock didn't throw him out, and Sherlock returns the smile as warmly as he can to reassure him.

"I'll see you tonight?" he asks and reaches for his coat.

John nods.

 

_tbc_

 

Coming up in chapter 8: **Thursday, 11 th August 2016 (Part III)** 


	9. The Day After - Part Three

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – John**

 

John is glad that Rosie doesn't make a fuss when he puts her to bed and reads her a story, and after kissing her forehead and making sure the baby monitor is switched on and working, he quietly leaves the room and closes the door behind himself. Usually they leave it open just a crack, but tonight he doesn't want to do that. _Who knows what sounds I'll be making before the night is over_ , he thinks a little randomly, and then blushes at his own idea. He's both incredibly nervous and pleasantly excited, but tries to push both feelings away for the time being, chiding himself for losing his head over the prospect of something as mundane as sex.

It's not like he's inexperienced in that area. Not at all.

He takes his time getting ready for bed, taking a shower and cleaning himself very thoroughly, and even as he leans into the pleasantly warm spray of water and loosens his tense muscles, he wonders who he's trying to kid. Of course he's losing his head over this. This is not simply sex. It's not about feeling good and having a bit of fun together, and it's not even about love. Or rather, it's about all of these things, but combined, and _more_. This is Sherlock. John has never felt this way before, for anybody, and the fact that he's hurt the other man so much in the past only adds to the feeling that being allowed to make love to him is something huge, something monumental, and something that's not to be taken for granted.

Maybe it's okay to feel like that about this, John thinks as he dries himself and then puts on his dressing gown. Maybe he can show Sherlock how much he loves him tonight, more so than he could with words, and even though he knows that their problems won't be solved miraculously by a great orgasm or two, he hopes that his friend will understand that John will never, ever cause him harm again. That he wants to make up for it, not only by working on himself and on a way to get over his issues, but also by giving him so much pleasure, again and again, that some of the pain can be erased over time.

When John enters Sherlock's room, the other man is waiting for him on the bed, completely naked, gazing at him through the half-light out of his otherworldly light-blue irises. John stops in the doorframe for a moment, mesmerised, and lets his eyes roam over his tall, pale form spread out on top of the covers, over his long, slender limbs and sharp angles and creamy skin. He’s a vision, a paragon of beauty, and he’s lying before him, all his to claim, to  _consume_. His posture speaks of complete trust, and John's stomach clenches with affection and gratitude. ( _I don't deserve this._ ) Sherlock is mute, simply looking at John, allowing him to take him in, and John deliberately stares at his crotch, at his pink, semi-hard cock that’s resting on his thigh, and at the nest of ebony curls surrounding it. Sherlock's stomach begins to rise and fall slightly faster at that, and John licks his lips and meets his eyes again.

He takes a step forwards and closes the door with his heel, and then he lets his dressing gown slide off his shoulders and to the floor behind him.

"Hello," he says lowly and walks over to the bed.

"Hello," Sherlock replies, sounding a little breathless already.

He attempts to roll over to make room for John, but John reaches for his hip and stills him, and Sherlock complies without a word.

"Stay," John tells him softly. "You’re perfect like this."

He sinks to his knees beside the bed and, without further preliminaries, buries his face between Sherlock's legs to breathe him in. Sherlock shivers and moans, his thighs opening for John, and John rubs his cheek against the other man's testicles and then teases him there with the tip of his tongue. His right hand makes its way across Sherlock's chest and finds a nipple, and when he flicks it with his thumb, he feels it harden under his touch.

Sherlock makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a sob and grabs John's head with one hand. His fingers are trembling, weaving through John's hair, his nails scraping his scalp.

"God, you're beautiful," John whispers. "Show me where you need it."

Sherlock whimpers, and it’s wonderful to hear him do it. He pulls John up a little bit until his mouth is hovering over his cock, which is filling rapidly now. John watches it happen, watches his length stiffen and rise from its resting place to bump against his face, and it’s so sexy and at the same time so sweet to know that he’s the only one who’ll ever witness this, witness  _Sherlock_  like this.

"Yes, love…" he murmurs and brushes Sherlock's shaft with his beard. Sherlock bucks up and into the touch. " _God_ , does it still turn you on, hmmm? Oh, I've been thinking about putting my face between your legs _all_ day…"

"John," Sherlock pants. " _Please_ …"

Sherlock,  _begging_. It’s more than John can take, and he stops teasing him and takes him into his left hand to give him a quick, tight stroke from tip to base. Sherlock's toes curl into the duvet he’s lying on.

"My gorgeous man," John breathes, and then he guides him between his lips to suck him into his mouth, slowly, deeply, and almost all the way down.

Sherlock inhales sharply and writhes a little underneath him, his fingers tightening their grip on his hair.

John keeps his fist wrapped around the part of him he can’t fit inside and revels in the pulsing of his lover's blood against his palm. Sherlock tastes freshly washed, of soap and skin, but there’s also a hint of his salty, slightly bitter essence hiding behind all that, and John's taste buds explode with the memory of him coming inside his mouth only a day ago.

"Hmmm…" he hums around him and feels his own voice vibrate through his flesh, pleased with himself when Sherlock jerks violently and a drop of searing-hot fluid trickles against his tongue in response.

"Ah!" Sherlock hisses. " _Mmhhh_. John…"

John growls and sucks harder, building up saliva to make the up-and-down slide of his lips on the other man's length slick and easy, and Sherlock cants his hips upwards and groans, his hand coming down to caress John's beard. John pinches his nipple and rolls it between his thumb and index finger as he keeps bobbing his head, and Sherlock loses control.

" _Oh_ God," he sobs. "John!"

John pulls away with a small _plop_ and grins up at him.

" _God_ , you're delicious…  I love how you let go… I want you so much right now…" he pants.

"Come," Sherlock pleads and holds out his arms, urging John to join him on the bed.

Not needing to be asked twice, John scrambles to his feet and lies down beside him, or rather halfway on top of him, and they meet in a long, heated kiss that’s nothing like the ones they shared that first time when John caught his friend alone in this very room, touching himself while thinking of him.

"I want you too," Sherlock mutters into John's mouth. "I always do."

He cradles John's cheek in his palm as they kiss, his other hand busy gripping his thigh, stroking it with quick, restless movements.

"Always will," he adds quietly and gently bites John's bottom lip.

John's pulse is racing, going so fast that he's scared for his health for a moment.

"I need you," he says against the younger man's soft, delicious lips before he can stop himself. "All of you. Make love to me. _Now_."

Sherlock stills for the fraction of a second, but then grabs John and rolls the two of them over so that he’s on top. John gasps and half-smiles in pleasant surprise. His heart is hammering behind his ribs in a mixture of apprehension and giddy expectation. It's really going to happen now. _Oh God._

"John," Sherlock says in a serious tone that clashes severely with his flushed cheeks and erratic breathing. "I've read about--- this. I'll do my best to put my theoretical knowledge to use, and if--- if it should prove unsatisfactory, I'll delete the information and look for more useful sources."

John knows he has to tread carefully now to avoid hurting him. Sherlock is different from other people, _unique_ even, and this doesn’t stop at sex and everything connected to it. Why should it?

"Sherlock," he answers and runs his fingers through the smooth, thick curls framing the beloved face looking down at him. "You’ll be wonderful. You _are_. I love that you--- that you prepared yourself, but please don’t be nervous or afraid. I--- Yesterday we did quite well, didn’t we? Let’s just see where it leads us."

Sherlock frowns a little.

"Are you--- sure?"

John knows that he can probably sense his fear underneath all the seemingly self-confident talk, and he loves him for asking to make sure it's not something he'll regret later. But he does want it, and he has to let him know.

"I'm nervous, too. But I want it so much, Sherlock. I want _you_ , want to feel you. If you want to, that is. Only if you want to."

Sherlock smiles. He's so handsome that it takes John's breath away.

"I do," he says. "I want you. Have done so forever. And since yesterday, since experiencing you and me together, I can hardly stop thinking about it. You've opened the floodgates, John."

John smiles back at him and draws him down towards himself for another kiss.

"I don't mind if I drown," he says into his mouth.

Sherlock's low growl of approval goes through John's whole body, and he knows he can't wait another _second_.

"Lube," he mutters into their kiss and gestures towards the bedside table, and Sherlock, the marvel, opens the drawer and gets the required item without even glancing at what he's doing.

But then they have to break the kiss so that Sherlock can sit up to slick up his fingers, and it all becomes much more real all of a sudden. The other man feels the same – John can tell.

"Keep your eyes on me," Sherlock whispers as he closes the bottle and puts it aside, and John shivers because he's heard this before, a long time ago. "Please. I need to see you while I--- do this."

It sounds small and pleading and completely unlike the last time he used that line, and John's heart aches at the memory of losing him back then, and at the thought of maybe losing him again someday. He doesn't know what he'd do without him. 

"Please," Sherlock repeats and lies down beside him again. "John."

John fixes his gaze on him and takes his hand to entwine their fingers. He can feel Sherlock's pulse fluttering against his palm, or maybe it's his own. The slickness coating Sherlock's middle and index finger gets spread all over John's hand, but he doesn’t care.

"I want these inside of me," he tells the younger man and raises their hands to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. "I want _you_ inside of me."

"I'm--- scared," Sherlock breathes. "I'm sorry. I know I’m killing the mood."

John lightly bumps his forehead against Sherlock's before looking into his eyes again.

"We can stop, Sherlock. We don't have to do it like that if you don't---"

"I do," Sherlock interrupts him. "I--- I want to."

John squeezes his hand.

"What are you scared of most?" he asks softly.

The other man presses his lips together and blushes, but keeps looking at him.

"Doing something wrong. Hurting you. Not being able to--- please you."

His expression is so raw, so open right now that it gives John a twinge. He’s never seen his friend look like this before, not once in all those years. Not even when they touched each other for the first time. This is Sherlock with _all_ his walls down, and he's aware of the fact that he's the only person on this planet who’s ever seen him like this. John doesn’t know how to live up to the responsibility, so he just leans into him and kisses him again.

"Did you like what I did to you yesterday?" he asks him and nips at his bottom lip. He can't get enough of this sweet, pliant mouth.

"I did. Very much," Sherlock mumbles, tilting his head, inviting John in. "Couldn't you tell?"

John licks into the space between his teeth, and he shudders.

"I want to feel the same," John says lowly, breathing Sherlock's air. "I want to be close to you, closer than ever before."

He gently nibbles at Sherlock's upper lip, and Sherlock huffs and runs his thumb along the shell of his ear. John can feel him smile a little into their kiss.

"Come closer," John whispers and lifts his leg to put it over Sherlock's hip, drawing him against himself in the process, making their cocks come together in a silky slide of skin on skin. "Closer…"

Sherlock shivers. Their hands still clasping each other, John moves them down and between his buttocks, and when they're there, he opens his fingers and slowly, so very slowly, shows Sherlock the way. Sherlock moans and bucks against him. John's own fingers are slick with lube now, too, and as he presses Sherlock's fingertip against the place he wants it to go, his own slips past the outer rim of his opening along with it.

It's the most incredible feeling - it's all wet down there, and so hot, and the pressure of the barely-there intrusion is not uncomfortable in the slightest. It's divine, and he wants more. He _needs_ more.

" _Ngh_ ," Sherlock presses out, his breathing accelerating. 

John stops kissing him and pushes his face against the other man's neck to gently rub it with his beard, and Sherlock responds immediately, groaning under his breath and rutting against him with small, urgent thrusts.

" _Closer_ ," John repeats. "Please.  _Inside_ …"

Sherlock groans again, his hot breath hitting John's ear in erratic puffs. 

" _John_ ," he rasps.

Then he pushes  _in_.

John's hand goes slack, causing his finger to slip free, and he just melts against Sherlock, turning to liquid in his arms within the blink of an eye. Heat is spreading from his lower body into his arms and legs, making them tingle pleasantly. This is amazing. This is nothing he has to be afraid of. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sparks of pleasure flitting through his nerves, his cheek resting on Sherlock's upper arm, his mouth so close to his jugular that he can feel the other man's excitement pulse against his lips.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers. "Mmhhh…"

"Okay?" Sherlock asks, panting. "John…?"

He moves his finger in and out with small, careful movements, and John's legs begin to shake.

" _God_  yes," is all he manages to say before the sensation of _Sherlock_ being inside him overwhelms him again and he's reduced to wordless moans.

Slowly, Sherlock goes a little deeper, twisting his hand. It's burning, but it doesn't hurt - it's just  _fullness_  of a kind John has never felt before. He feels himself opening up to it, his body responding to the stimulation, welcoming it, and he just lies there, boneless, and lets it happen.

They don't talk for a while. Sherlock keeps moving his hand, adjusting his speed and rhythm according to John's responses, and even through the haze of arousal clouding his brain right now John can tell that he's  _read about this_ , indeed. He's timid at first, but becomes more and more confident the longer it lasts, and his precision leaves little to be desired. He crooks his finger the exactly right way to hit the good spots, and in the scarce clear moments between the increasingly frequent – and pleasurable – jolts of sensation zig-zagging through him, John wonders if this is beginner's luck or simply Sherlock being his usual high-functioning self.

"Please---  _nghhh_ … _Please_ don't delete this," he gasps after a particularly intense encounter between Sherlock's fingertip and what appears to be John's prostate. "It's really--- _oh!_ It's really _highly_  satisfactory…"

Sherlock hums, and John is glad to hear him sound more like his old self now – pleased with himself and clearly amused, with a slight undertone of  _Did you expect anything less?_ thrown in for good measure.

"More?" Sherlock then asks in a low, throaty voice that gives John goose bumps all over.

"Yes," he whispers. "Sher--- lock…"

Sherlock grins against his temple; he can sense him doing it even though he can’t see his face.

"I love it when you say my name," he rumbles and pulls out of John to circle his opening with the pad of his middle finger only. "Say it again…"

 _My heart is going to burst_ , John thinks. _I can’t take anything more._

"Sher---" he starts, but then the fingers are back, two of them this time, and as they slide inside him with gentle, but determined pressure, the rest gets mangled into a slurry, growling "--- _lorghhh_ …"

He’s embarrassed by this lack of control over his own voice, but Sherlock's cock gives a violent twitch and he moans wantonly. He seems to like it. Once he’s in up to his knuckles, his hand resumes his rhythm, but now he spreads his fingers every two or three thrusts to stretch John's passage even further, and John's eyes roll back in his head behind his closed lids. He feels dizzy.

"John," Sherlock sighs. "You're beautiful…"

He nudges John's prostate with his fingertips, again and again, and begins to roll his hips against John's in the same slow, languid pace. There’s a lot of precome by now, and John can’t tell anymore if it’s Sherlock's or his own. Everything’s slick and warm there between them, and he bites Sherlock's neck and grunts against his sweaty skin, no longer caring about the sounds he's emitting.

They’re turning into one being, joint at the place where Sherlock's fingers keep entering John's body, but also at their middles, which have found each other in an ancient, basic, mindless rhythm, and John kisses and licks along every bit of his lover's skin he can reach, his neck, his shoulder, his jaw, in a desperate attempt to get closer  _still_.

It goes on forever, it seems, but John knows that his perception of time can't be trusted right now. He's existing entirely in the moment, and nothing else matters anymore.

" _John_ \--- I'll finish if--- oh,  _God_ …" Sherlock stops moving all of a sudden and uses his forearm to hold John down as well, breathing heavily. "Wait,  _wait_ …"

His fingers are still inside of John, but he's barely moving them now, and John's body screams out for more, more,  _now_.

" _Please_ ," he groans. "Don't--- stop…"

Sherlock kisses his temple, very tenderly, and the gentle touch causes his muscles to relax a little.

"John, no…" Sherlock says soothingly. "I don't want this to end here… I want to do it properly…"

Slowly, he pulls away and sits up so that John comes to rest halfway on his front, one of his legs still pulled up to give Sherlock access to his behind. He hides his face in Sherlock's pillow and takes a deep breath to calm himself. He knows Sherlock is right. He doesn't want this to end here, either.

"Relax, John…" Sherlock murmurs and shuffles around for a bit, probably looking for a comfortable position, and then he's touching John again, with both hands this time, massaging his buttocks with slow, deliberate movements.

"Sherlock…" John sighs.

"Relax…" Sherlock repeats, rumbling lowly, and John inhales his friend's scent, which is _everywhere_ in this room, and does.

He sinks into the mattress a little further, his hands holding on to the pillow now, and then Sherlock spreads him with his thumbs and slips both of them into him and _pulls_ him apart and open and

 _oh_ ,

_God!_

John groans.

"You're _so_ beautiful like this," Sherlock whispers.

He keeps kneading John's cheeks and starts to thrust again, with both hands at the same time, and although his thumbs are too short to reach the really good spots, it's _perfect_. The sensations are coming in waves now, and John slips under and enjoys it, no longer able to think straight.

He can't tell how long he's lying there, lost in his pleasure, and he doesn't care.

Nothing has ever felt this good.

"Almost," he hears Sherlock mumble after a while, and the next thing he knows, the other man draws back and then puts his face where his hands used to be, and John's brain short-circuits.

It's wet. Hot. So slick. So good. Sherlock's breath. His tongue. His lips, his teeth, his purring moans. 

John thinks he'll faint. He thinks he'll come. He thinks Sherlock has spoilt him for the rest of the world.

It lasts forever. 

He's teetering on the edge, but Sherlock doesn't allow him to fall.

It's frustrating.

It's pure delight.

From now on, _nothing_ else will be good enough.

Then Sherlock is gone, and John whimpers and utters wordless protest at this loss, but a second later he hears Sherlock open the bottle of lube and slick himself up and stills again. Now. Now. _Sherlock._ His head is swimming. He lies there spread out in front of his friend, waiting, thrumming with want.

When Sherlock nudges his thigh and signals him to turn around, he complies willingly. He rolls onto his back and opens his legs for him, and Sherlock lies down on top of him, so slender, all his muscles quivering, and that's when John snaps out of his stupor and remembers that Sherlock has never done this before.

He pulls him closer and kisses his cheekbone.

"Come inside now," he then whispers against his ear and nips at his earlobe. "Please,  _now_ , Sherlock…"

Sherlock shivers; John can feel the wave go through him from head to toe. He holds on to his shoulders and closes his eyes, and Sherlock shifts a little to align himself, and then it all breaks into fragments again. He's touching John now, his tip is pressing against him, _into_ him, and his hardness feels very hot, and very present as it slowly slips inside, but it doesn't hurt.

_So good._

John's body is accommodating to the intrusion and stretches around it until Sherlock's all the way inside, and only when he's embedded up to the hilt does John come back to his senses and realises that the younger man is panting, sucking in frantic gulps of air, his voice catching in his throat on every exhale. He's trembling all over. John wraps his arms around his back.

"It's--- _okay_ , Sherlock…" he tells him breathlessly, his eyes still squeezed shut, and kisses his temple. "God, you feel--- _so_ good…"

He trails his hands down Sherlock's spine and then cups his buttocks to pull him even tighter against himself. He's so big, so very  _there_ , pushing John's body to its limits and yet completing it in a way he didn't expect, and somehow he regrets not trying this sooner, even though he knows that with any other person it wouldn't have been like this at all.

" _John_ ," Sherlock moans in a soft, very un-Sherlockian manner, and leans his forehead against John's. "Are you--- does it--- hurt?"

He pushes his knees into the mattress to get some leverage, which changes his angle ever so slightly, and the effect of this tiny movement is so monumental, so _incredibly_ good, that John wonders what it will feel like once they really get going.

He doesn’t want to wait to find out.

"No," he tells him. " _Ohhh_ … please… _move_ …"

They took their time preparing him, so he's already become familiar with the pulsing, burning sensation that’s by now spreading from his entrance into every fibre of his being, but when Sherlock begins to rock his hips, he's overwhelmed by what it does to him. It's not more than very careful, very shallow thrusting, but it's already so different from feeling his fingers move and probe; it's much more intense, and John slings his legs around Sherlock's hips to ground himself. He needs as much body contact as possible right now.

"Are you--- okay?" Sherlock asks again, breathlessly. " _Talk_ to me…"

John reckons he needs him to guide him, at least for now. He opens his eyes and raises his arms to hold the younger man's head and make him look at him, bucking up and into his next thrust.

"I’m--- _oh_ God… I’m going to be very--- _blunt_ with you now, Sh---Sherlock," he presses out, fighting through the spikes of pleasure compromising his speech centre. "I want you to--- to _fuck_ me now… _Oh_ \---okay? I _love_ your--- your cock inside me… Don’t--- hold back…"

He trails off, amazed by his own boldness – behold Captain John "Not Gay" Watson, begging to be shagged hard. But who cares. He keeps one hand in Sherlock's hair and puts the other on his hip to encourage his movements, digging his fingers into his flesh.

"Fuck me," he says again, and then, because it somehow feels right: "I love you."

Sherlock lets out a long, shaky breath and leans down to lick John's throat, and then he pulls out almost entirely and comes back with a smooth, controlled, absolutely fucking _perfect_ thrust.

" _Fuck_ ," John hisses and allows his lids to flutter shut again. "Yesss…"

Sherlock breathes an open-mouthed sigh against his Adam’s apple and does it again, harder this time, and then again, and again. John stops thinking. From far away, he hears himself moan in time with Sherlock's slow, but forceful rhythm, and also, a little more clearly, his friend's voice, his beautiful deep groans of effort and lust. He’s alight with pleasure, more than he's ever been before.

"Mh---hmmm… _Johnnn_ …" Sherlock rumbles into John's skin and then rubs his face against his beard like a huge, lazy cat.

It makes John tremble all over.

"Faster," he breathes. "I--- need---"

He breaks off when a particularly well-placed thrust presses into his prostate and makes his vision flicker and go black for a second.

Sherlock is amazing. John wants to tell him, but he can't find the words to do so. Coherence has left him long ago.

"Tell me," Sherlock pants back. "What--- do you--- need…?"

John feels his legs go tense around Sherlock's thighs. He wants to come so badly, but at the same time he wishes they could just stay like this forever.

"Harder," he begs through clenched teeth. "Ngghhh… _God!_ I need--- harder, _harder_ … _please_ …"

 _God_ , he needs to come.

"Yes," Sherlock gasps and moans against his chin. " _John_."

He goes harder. Faster. _Faster_.

"Fuck," John whispers hoarsely, clinging to Sherlock's back with one hand, to his arse with the other. There's no air. No thought. Just this, this, _this_. "Oh Go- _od_ …"

Sherlock groans then, loudly, and suddenly changes his position on top of John to be able to suck at the side of his neck, and his stomach pushes against John's cock, taut with the effort of thrusting, and it feels so good that John can't help but sob in ecstasy.

"Yes!" he moans. " _Please!_ "

He's lost the ability to form sentences, so out of his mind that he can't tell Sherlock what he needs, but Sherlock understands, _bless him_ , and puts more of his weight on John to give him more friction, his teeth scraping the skin behind John's ear, his breath loud and irregular, his movements becoming more and more urgent.

"John," he gasps. "John, _John_ …"

John almost screams when he goes faster still, trapping his erection between their hot, sweat-slick bodies, and Sherlock lets out a low, drawn-out moan and puts his hand over his mouth.

"Ssh-sshhh…" he hisses.

John grunts and licks his palm, and Sherlock shudders so violently that the mattress ripples under them.

" _Nngghhh_ … I--- love--- _you_ …" he rasps into John's ear, his breath ragged. " _Oh_ \---"

He slams into John with another hard, desperate thrust and comes, stifling his relieved groan by biting down on John's neck hard enough to leave a bruise.

John feels it happen inside of himself, all of it – Sherlock's cock throbbing and becoming impossibly harder as he reaches his peak, his hot come spurting out of him and into his body, the shocks of ecstasy that shake him to the core.

This is what heaven feels like.

All through his orgasm, Sherlock's hips keep moving, keep grinding against his arse, and his stomach is still rubbing him _just right_ , and John listens to his friend's frantic gasps and nips at his palm, tasting salt and skin.

"Don't--- _stop_ ," he begs breathlessly.

It comes out muffled.

He's almost there.

Almost.

_Don't stop._

_Don't don't don't---_

" _John_ ," Sherlock suddenly breathes right into his ear. " _Come_ \--- my--- _love_ …" 

He removes his hand from John's lips to stroke it along his jaw instead, and it's a gesture so tender, so out of place amidst all their combined moaning and panting and their sweaty, exhausted chasing after John's climax that it sends him right over the edge.

He bites his lip to keep himself from shouting out when the sensation overwhelms him and crashes down on him in pulse after pulse of the sweetest release he's ever felt. Sherlock's arms are there, catching him, holding him as he falls into the abyss, and he's scared of losing himself and at the same time he feels so free, so light, and so absolutely happy that he doesn't care if he'll ever come back to solid ground again.

"Ye-esss…" Sherlock whispers as he rocks them back and forth with gentle, ever-slowing thrusts, his mouth on John's temple, his hands in his hair. "John, _John_ … so _lovely_ …"

He's rambling, still floating high himself, it seems, and John keeps his eyes closed and just feels him, smells him, listens to his mumbled words of praise.

After a while, Sherlock stops moving, and John with him. They lie there, legs entwined, arms slung around each other, catching their breath.

Everything's still. Peaceful. Warm.

The slick wetness between their stomachs and chests is beginning to cool down, leaving their skin sticking together everywhere. It should be uncomfortable, but John finds that he doesn't mind at all. Their hearts are beating against each other through so many layers of flesh and bone, synchronised, slowing down as tension dissolves and satisfaction settles in.

Sherlock looks up then, his eyes glassy, his cheeks flushed.

When he smiles, it's the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – Sherlock**

They lie together in the afterglow, not speaking a word, not moving at all, just breathing, taking in each other's presence, just _being_ together, still as one, even though their physical connection broke when Sherlock slipped out of John's body as he softened, and Sherlock feels the memory of John's tight heat around himself, faint and throbbing, and knows he'll never forget this first time for as long as he lives.

He was so afraid. And then everything was so beautiful. _John_ was so beautiful.

Sherlock studies the texture of the ceiling without registering what he's seeing. He could fall asleep now, he thinks lazily. Sleep has never come easily to him, not even as a child, and after his absence from London and everything that followed it, nightmares regularly disrupted the few hours of rest his body claimed for itself when his exhaustion became too severe. But right now he feels so calm, so detached from the disturbing thoughts usually keeping him up and alert when everyone else is resting, that he could doze off just like that.

"Sherlock," John whispers and nestles himself even closer against his side. "I love you so much."

Sherlock bites his lip, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of affection washing over him, and kisses the crown of John's head, making the touch of his mouth linger and inhaling the essence of his lover – sweat, soap, _John_. Right now, he's sure that they'll be alright. They'll get through it all. They started today.

"I love you too, John," he answers lowly.

John hums. Sherlock can tell he's very tired.

"Do you want to get cleaned up?" he asks him.

Maybe that would be reasonable. They're sticking together everywhere they touch. 

" _Mmhhh_ … not yet…" comes the sleepy reply. "I just want to lie here with you for a bit…"

Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes. He's not squeamish when it comes to handling dead bodies, but he's always been anxious to remove any and all traces of bodily fluids of _living_ people (those of others and his own in equal measures) if they happened to come in contact with his skin. To his own surprise it doesn't bother him in the slightest now. He's covered in John's semen, can smell it everywhere, and his penis is still slick with lubricant and his own release, but he doesn't feel the urge to run to the bathroom and get rid of it. Quite the opposite – everything that used to disgust him in the past is now evidence of what John and he shared with each other, which makes it beautiful and intimate instead of repulsing and shameful. 

"Okay," he mumbles into John's hair.

They stay like that for long, blissful minutes, but then the baby monitor crackles and springs to life, and they hear Rosie cry and babble in her sleep.

"Nightmare," John mutters and stirs. "I'll go---"

"No," Sherlock interrupts him and holds him down with gentle force. "I'll go. You stay here and rest."

He carefully pulls himself into a sitting position and helps John to arrange the pillow under his head, already missing the weight of his lover's body draped halfway across his own.

" _Hmph_ … You sure?" John asks.

Sherlock smiles at him and his tousled state.

"Of course. It's no problem. Stay here."

He gets up and puts on his slippers and dressing gown, then makes his way upstairs.

When he enters John's room, Rosie is already awake, her eyes puffy from crying, her cheeks flushed. She's a pitiful sight, and Sherlock bends over her cot and puts his hand on her head to check her temperature. No fever. That's good.

"Dada!" Rosie wails. "Dada!"

"Sshhh…" Sherlock whispers. "Your dad is tired, little bee. You'll have to make do with me. Okay?"

Rosie sniffs and then cries out again, and Sherlock picks her up and wraps his arms around her and starts to walk around the room in slow circles, rocking her up and down and pressing his mouth against her temple to get her to calm down.

"Ssshhh… It's okay… We're here…" he coos lowly, kissing her soft baby skin. "It was only a dream…"

Rosie hiccups and whimpers, but stops sobbing, and after a minute or two Sherlock feels her settle more heavily against him, her breathing evening out.

"That's it, little bee," he says lowly. "Just relax. Go back to sleep…"

"Shello," Rosie says quite clearly, her small voice still rough and teary, and Sherlock has to sit down on John's bed because his legs stop cooperating at that.

He takes a deep breath and feels the tears come so quickly that he doesn't have time to somehow stop himself from breaking down, and so he just hugs Rosie more tightly and keeps rocking her in his embrace, taking care not to let her see his face. He has no idea how much children of her age understand about the world they live in, but he's sure they can interpret facial expressions and mirror the emotion that's being shown, and he doesn't want to upset her any further.

He's embarrassed about losing control like this, but it's all too much. He's never felt like this before. There's something inside of him that's too big, too new, and it wants to burst out, and it's so complex that he can't put a name to it.

"I--- I love you," he rasps, and even as he says it, he feels the pressure ease. "I'll always--- protect you. I promise…"

Suddenly, a familiar silhouette appears in the doorframe, and then John is there and sits down next to him, clad in his pyjamas. He puts his arms around the two of them, and Sherlock closes his eyes and leans against his solid, compact body and cries silently until his chest doesn't ache anymore.

"You left the baby monitor on," John whispers into his ear and kisses his cheek, dabbing his tears away with his lips. "Sshhh…"

Later, when she's fallen asleep again, they put Rosie back in her cot and then John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him to the bathroom, and they shower together and clean themselves up, and John hugs him and holds him very tight.

They do not talk.

They settle down in John's bed afterwards, still naked, and Sherlock, too awake again to really drift off yet, listens to the regular breathing of the two people in the room with him and memorises their rhythms, because they're the two most important people that have ever lived. He makes sure to always hold one part of John as the other man falls into a deep slumber, unconsciously moving his limbs in what Sherlock thinks is an endearingly erratic fashion.

"Hrrmmm… Octopus," John grumbles sleepily when he tries to roll onto his side and Sherlock follows immediately, his arm slung around his middle.

Sherlock can hear the amusement in his tone.

"Sleep," he breathes into John's ear and presses his chest against his back.

John chuckles vaguely, putting his hand over Sherlock's where it is resting on his stomach, and is asleep again in an instant.

Sherlock lies awake for a long time, but he's not troubled that sleep eludes him once again. He goes to his mind palace and rearranges the rooms dedicated to John and Rosie, files away the scents and flavours and feelings of today, and the sounds ( _Shello_ ), too. He looks at his favourites and gives them special places, and when he eventually falls asleep in the early hours of the morning, he dreams of nothing at all.

 

_The End._


End file.
